


Fade Away (Collide In Bloodshot Eyes)

by whoyoureallyare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Fix-It, Grieving John, Grieving Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Suicide, minor casefic, minor homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoyoureallyare/pseuds/whoyoureallyare
Summary: Mary’s dead. Sherlock should have prevented her death, should have stopped her from taking a bullet for him. He as good as killed her, and now John hates him. Overwhelming guilt and loss leads Sherlock into a dark spiral, and he doubts that he’ll ever be okay again without John by his side.He clutched at his head as he remembered how it used to be. Coming home with John after cases, laughing in the cabs, talking in front of a fire. Now he had no one. A long walk home, in the chilly drizzle. An empty flat. No fire, no laughter, no talking. Just him, alone. The same way it had been since John got married. Really, since he had faked his death, but he and John and Mary used to sit up late and talk, which, while not ideal, was better than what he was left with now.A strangled scream tore its way out of his throat. He could have stopped Mary’s death.Your fault.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this is from U2's _Bad_. The song is about someone addicted to heroin and it fits this perfectly. I highly recommend listening to it if you haven't already heard it. It ties in very well. 
> 
> This fic starts from the moment of Mary's death. A few things to note: Eurus does not exist. I pretty much ignore the events of Series 4 after The Six Thatchers with a few canon references, but it is mostly canon-divergent. This will primarily be about Sherlock's drug use after Mary's death. Basically every chapter has something to do with either drugs or suicide. I will not be posting a warning for each chapter because that is the premise of this fic. If this bothers you please do not read it. These topics are featured very heavily. This has not been beta'd or Britpicked, so if I got something wrong please tell me and I'll change it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_But nothing is better sometimes_

_Once we’ve both said our goodbyes_

_Let’s just let it go_

_Let me let you go_

_Quiet when I’m coming home_

_And I’m on my own_

_I could lie, say I like it like that_

_Like it like that_

_I could lie, say I like it like that_

_Like it like that_

Time slowed to a halt, the echo of the gunfire reverberating around the small room. Blue light danced across the walls, moving much too sluggishly.

This was it, then.

This was how he was going to die. In an aquarium, of all places. Defending his best friend’s wife. Who was an assassin. Who shot him. He could have laughed at the absurdity of it. 

Maybe he should have moved out of the way. Maybe. But he made a vow, and he was going to uphold it to the best of his ability. If he died, so be it. John and Mary would be safe. 

A dark shadow jumped in front of him. He couldn’t move, frozen, waiting for the bullet that never hit. 

_What?_

He could only watch as the figure in front of him collapsed to the side. Shadows solidified, time sped up. The room was still bathed in blue light. 

“Surprise.” Norbury’s cold voice shocked him into action. 

Mary was collapsed against a low wall, gasping. Blood had spread across her chest in the same position where she had shot him, but there was so much more of it. He rushed to her side, bending over, looking into her eyes. 

“Everything’s fine, it’s going to be okay.” His voice was rushed, unsteady. He turned back to the others. “Get an ambulance. It’s all right. It’s all right.” 

“Mary!” John ran into the room. Sherlock immediately backed away from Mary. His heart sank. John was moving towards her, dropping to his knees as soon as he was near. Her loud gasps filled his ears. John murmured to her. “Mary? Mary? Stay with me, stay with me.” Sherlock watched, helpless. “Don’t worry.” 

“Come on, doctor,” she gasped. “You can do better than that.” Her voice was close to breaking. Sherlock did nothing. 

“Come on, Mary.” John’s voice was also close to breaking. Sherlock took another step back. John kept repeating her name, as if he couldn’t do anything else. He couldn’t.

“John, I think this is it.” Mary sounded so certain, so sure that this was the end. She was right, Sherlock knew. This was the end. John protested. “You made me so happy,” Mary said, interrupting him, her voice cracking. “You gave me everything I had ever, ever wanted.” 

“Shh, shh. Mary.” John was smiling at her, tears in his eyes, nodding his head. He smoothed her hair back. 

“Look after Rosie,” Mary said, crying. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” John whispered, still stroking her hair. “Yes, I promise. Promise. I promise.” He continued to soothe her, holding her. 

“Hey, Sherlock?” Mary turned to him. 

He tried to keep his face neutral, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “Yes.” He blinked, his eyebrows drawn. 

“I so like you,” she gasped. “Did I ever say?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, trying to smile and failing miserably. His mouth contorted into an awful shape. “Yes, you did.” He bit his lip, tears pricking at the back of his eyes. 

“I’m sorry for shooting you that time, I’m really sorry.” 

He pressed his lips together. They quirked upwards, once, briefly, his expression flickering. “It’s all right.” He closed his eyes, kept them closed for as long as he dared. Opened them to see Mary looking worse by the second. 

“I think we’re even now, okay?”

He wanted to laugh, would’ve laughed, even, but he couldn’t. Just couldn’t. He watched the life drain out of Mary and thought about how terrible it was. “Okay.”

Mary could barely speak, ragged breaths being pulled out of her mouth, chest heaving, tears streaking her face. “I think we’re even, definitely even.” She stuttered, sobbing, gasping, holding on by a thread. She turned back to John. “You were my whole world.” John threw his head back, face contorting, grieving. No light left in his expression, just rawness, exposed. John ducked his head. Sherlock couldn’t see his face. Didn’t even want to see his face. “Being Mary Watson…” she gulped, paused. John lifted his head slightly. A vein throbbed in his forehead. “Was the only life worth living.” She choked the words out. “Thank you.” John nodded, once, twice. He breathed deeply, unnaturally. Her head dipped.

“Mary.” She stopped breathing, stopped moving, stopped talking. Stopped living. John put his arm around her and rested his chin on top of her head, looking straight ahead. Seeing but not seeing. He eased his head down, pressed it against hers. Held on tightly.

When he leaned back, Mary’s eyes were open, glassy and still. 

The sound that came out of John’s mouth was worse than anything Sherlock had ever heard before. Worse even than when John had found him dead. A cross between a scream, a moan, a sob. John’s body heaved. Sherlock wanted to go to him. He wanted to do something, anything, but he couldn’t move. 

After a moment, John looked up. Sherlock was finally able to move. He reached out a hand towards John. John’s face was a mixture of pain and agony. Sherlock had never seen this expression on him. His face was red. Sherlock removed his hand immediately. John inhaled deeply. Hatred was etched in every feature of his face. “Don’t you dare,” he growled. Sherlock didn’t do anything. “You made a vow.” He panted, heavily. “You swore it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, but still he made no move other than to lean back a little. A reflex of sorts. A trickle of spit traced its way down John’s chin. The room was silent save for John’s ragged breathing. John held her and kissed her forehead. Sherlock slowly stepped away. 

A heavy silence fell upon them. The room seemed frozen in time as John tried to keep himself together but couldn’t, clutching Mary’s lifeless body. 

“John, I…” Sherlock started, several minutes later. “I’m sorry, I-” John didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. “John?” Sherlock tried again, completely at a loss for what to say. 

“Go,” John said, finally. “Just go.” His voice was breaking, cracking, shattering. Sherlock’s stomach hardened and twisted. He felt like he might vomit. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything else as he left the room. He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected, but nobody followed him. A hollow pit formed in his stomach. Muffled voices from the other room grew fainter with every step he took. Over all the voices, he heard John making those terrible noises. He resisted the urge to cover his head and try to block out the sound, telling himself to listen.

The blue light was luminous on the walls, flickering and changing. Sherlock forced himself to walk back through the shark tank. He wasn’t sure he could ever look at an aquarium the same way again. 

Drizzle fell on his face as soon as he stepped outside. He tilted his head back and let the rain fall. It was cooling, refreshing, compared to the cold, dry interior of the aquarium. He took a deep breath, then another. His breath was shaky. He finally let himself cry, hot tears mingling with the cool water. 

The hollow feeling spread throughout his stomach, slowly replacing his nausea. God, he needed a cigarette. Or something stronger. Sherlock opted not to call a cab. He could walk home alone, in the rain. It was fine. 

He clutched at his head as he remembered how it used to be. Coming home with John after cases, laughing in the cabs, talking in front of a fire. Now he had no one. A long walk home, in the chilly drizzle. An empty flat. No fire, no laughter, no talking. Just him, alone. The same way it had been since John got married. Really, since he had faked his death, but he and John and Mary used to sit up late and talk, which, while not ideal, was better than what he was left with now. 

A strangled scream tore its way out of his throat. He could have stopped Mary’s death. _Your fault._

He started running. His footsteps pounded on the pavement in time to his thoughts. _Your fault. Your fault. It’s all your fault._ He had promised. He promised to protect them both. He made a vow. He had failed. Mary was dead. John probably hated him. No, John definitely hated him. 

He reached the Westminster Bridge quickly. He collapsed against the railing in the middle of the bridge, another scream ripping out of him. Nobody else was around to hear it. The clock tower was lit up, hazy but visible through the worsening rain. He panted and sobbed, looking down at the dark river. _If you jumped now, nobody would care._ He shook his head once, twice, to clear away the intrusive thoughts. His body was trembling. The freezing rain soaked his hair and trickled down his face. He made sure the collar of his coat was turned up, and when he was certain it was, he resumed the trip home. No longer running. 

He bowed his head, rain running down his neck. His hair was soaked in a matter of seconds. His coat would probably be ruined after this, he reflected, but at that point he couldn’t care less. He could always get another. A coat was such a trivial thing compared to the events that had just happened. A coat was replaceable. Mary’s life was irreplaceable. He fought to keep down another sob, speeding up his pace slightly. London was nearly deserted at this hour, lights from nearby buildings glowing in the darkness. Cars drove by, spraying water. What was once a drizzle was quickly turning into more of a downpour. Sherlock usually liked the rain. He found solace in it. Not this time. Freezing droplets slid inside his coat. It felt like a punishment. And it was, in a way. It was his fault Mary was dead, all his fault. He tilted his head back, once again. Rain fell down and pelted his face, his cheeks, his nose, his eyes. He shivered, drawing his coat tighter around him. It would do nothing to keep him warm once it got wet, of course. In fact, it would probably make him even colder. But for now it was enough. 

Sherlock continued walking, avoiding curious gazes from the few people he saw. He was none of their business. 

He needed a cigarette. He needed to feel the smoke filling his lungs, see the small spark of light at the end of it. He needed to do something. The nearest Tesco was a few blocks away. It wasn’t really on his way back to Baker Street, but it would have to do. 

He got a few nervous glances from the people inside the store, but he ignored them. He found the lighters easily, and went to the register to pick up cigarettes. The checker, a nervous young man (didn’t want to work this late, needed the money for rent for a flat with his girlfriend, no, boyfriend, who had just got out of rehab for-drugs? No, alcohol) looked at him strangely when he approached. 

“I am fully aware of my appearance,” Sherlock growled in response to the checker’s alarm. “Where do you keep your cigarettes?”

“Any particular brand? I’ll get them for you, sir,” he replied. 

“I don’t care, just get me _something.”_ He didn’t have time for this. His hands itched for a cigarette. 

The man nodded and rushed off, returning moments later with the cigarettes. Sherlock hastily took them from him, fingers fumbling to get his card to pay. As soon as the transaction was finished, he ripped open the package with icy fingers. He struck the lighter. 

“Not in here, please!” The man cried nervously. Sherlock glared at him, but waited until he was outside to strike the lighter. The rain was not conducive to smoking nor trying to light anything on fire, and he swore. Loudly. The nearest awning was a few feet away, and he hurried there, shoes splashing up rainwater. The deep chill that had settled in his bones made it difficult to light the cigarette, his hands unresponsive. He grew increasingly more frustrated until finally it struck, a small glow in the darkness. 

Sherlock brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, the smoke filling his lungs. It helped his hands to stop shaking, though it did nothing to get rid of the chill like he had hoped. He took another long breath, waiting for the pounding in his head to stop. The hollowness had spread to his lungs and heart. He hated it. 

Taking a deep breath, he ducked out from under the awning. The rain pounded down. His coat would soon be soaked through. Taking quick steps, he set off towards Baker Street. The cigarette helped calm his body, but his mind was active as ever. He almost regretted not taking a cab, not because of the rain, but because the walk home gave him endless time to think about John. He was certain he would never be able to delete that expression on John’s face, not ever. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He had to keep it, had to remind himself of all the ways he had failed in keeping John and Mary safe. 

Sherlock choked on the next inhalation of smoke and glared at his cigarette. The rain was beginning to seep through his coat, dampening his shoulders. He shivered. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Checking his mobile, he saw that he had a little less than an hour’s walk left. He sighed and took another drag. 

Sherlock’s feet carried him where he was supposed to go, while his mind was elsewhere. It wandered into places he absolutely did not want to be. He spent a few minutes perfectly cataloging the entire evening in his mind palace. Norbury. He expected white-hot anger to spike through his body when he thought of her, but couldn’t manage even that. 

_Mary’s dead, and it’s all your fault._

He reached up and pressed the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette to his head, tangling his fingers in his hair. It hurt. He relished the pain. He deserved the pain. _Your fault._ He closed his eyes for as long as he dared, trying to compose his expression. His phone buzzed then, and he reached for it, fingers stiff from cold. 

It wasn’t John.

Disappointment flared once, quickly, then dissipated into nothing. Numb, hollow nothing. He wasn’t surprised, of course, and berated himself for even daring to think it might be John. John didn’t want anything to do with him. Of course he didn’t. Sherlock killed his wife. Suddenly, all he wanted was to curl up in his chair by the fire, John opposite. He hit his thigh with a closed fist, once again relishing the pain. 

The person who wasn’t John texted him again. He glanced at it. Unknown number, probably client. It was late, and he was exhausted. A client was the last thing he needed at the moment. He deleted the text.

After walking for a few more blocks, he became aware of the fact that his coat was utterly and completely soaked. Ruined. He gripped the fabric tighter, took another breath. The smoke filled his lungs, soothing and familiar. The cigarette was almost burnt out now. He would need to light another one. 

He pressed the butt of the cigarette against a nearby brick wall, not caring that it probably wasn’t the best idea, and threw it into the street. His hands were so cold at this point that he could barely open the package. He tried, fumbling, until finally he managed to pull out and light another cigarette. It admittedly wasn’t his choice brand, but right now he didn’t mind. He wished he had his gloves. Those were back at the flat. He held the cigarette between his lips and rubbed his hands together, trying to bring warmth into them. He had stopped shivering, now numb with cold. 

Sherlock crossed the road without waiting for the light to turn. 

He did it at the next block, too. 

Someone called out to him, but he didn’t stop. His mind whirled. Mary. John’s face. Mary. John’s face. Mary. John telling him to go. _You made a vow,_ he had said. _You swore it._

His shoulders and legs were completely soaked by now, cold water running in rivulets down his back. He checked his mobile again. Almost halfway there. He quickened his pace, ready to be back in his flat. Alone. Without John. He had been living alone for years now, so coming home alone should be fine, but the thought that he would never see John again was nearly too much to bear. Cold seeped through his bones until he thought he’d never be warm again. He sped up even more, as fast as he could through the numbness in his legs. Rain fell into his eyes and blurred his vision, or perhaps it was the tears starting again. A strong gust of wind blew the cigarette out of his fingers. He wasn’t strong enough to hold on. He tried to reach for another, but he couldn’t grasp it. He shoved his hands in his pocket, tucked his head, and started to run. Moments later he stopped. Running would bring him warmth, but he couldn’t seem to get his legs to move properly. He settled for walking at a quick pace, arriving at Baker Street some time later. He checked his mobile. It was late, about eleven. 

He had to try several times to get the key in the lock. It didn’t work. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate, so he rang the doorbell for 221A.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, looking quite alarmed. Her bathrobe was tied tightly around her waist. She clearly had been about to go to bed. Sherlock didn’t care. “What are you doing out here?” she said. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Mary’s dead.” His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears. He wasn’t sure of the status of his face, but he assumed that it didn’t look great. At those words, the hollowness spread throughout his entire body and his legs gave way. He stumbled, falling against the doorframe. Mrs. Hudson gaped at him, reaching an arm out. He waved her away, managing to get to the railing at the foot of the stairs without falling over. 

“John’s wife?” Mrs. Hudson asked, blankly. “Mary Watson?”

Sherlock nodded. He found that he couldn’t quite speak. _How many other Mary's do we know?_ The scathing remark was on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t say anything. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” The look she gave him was pure pity. Normally, he hated pity. This time though, he didn’t feel any of the usual anger. Just blank nothing. 

“I’m fine,” he said, which was a lie. He hated how his voice shook, absolutely hated it. _You don’t deserve to feel upset. It’s your fault._

“Where’s John?” She peered out into the night before firmly shutting the door. “I would’ve thought he would be with you.” Sherlock pressed his eyes shut, turning his face towards the stairs so it wouldn’t show anything he was currently feeling. Her words cut him to the bone, made him feel as though he was seeping raw emotion straight from inside him. 

Sherlock took a deep breath to steady himself. “John? Not really in the picture anymore.” John would never be in the picture anymore. Not after this.

“Sherlock,” she said, and he could tell she wanted him to say more, do something, anything, to help her know he was okay. But he wasn’t okay, he would never be okay again. He couldn’t bring himself to care what she thought. 

“I’m fine,” he said, again. “Goodnight.” He set one foot on the stairs, then the other. Still wobbly, but he figured he could manage to get up to his flat.

“Is there anything I can do?” Her voice cracked. She was trying to be strong for him, but if he didn’t leave now they would both start crying on the stairs and that would be completely unacceptable.

“A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.” He climbed the stairs, not looking back. 

“I’m not your…” but she trailed off, and soon he shut the door to 221B behind him. 

He made it all the way down the hall to his bedroom, pulling his bathrobe and pyjamas out of the closet. He then walked slowly into the bathroom. He fumbled with his coat and suit, pulling them off and dropping them to the floor. The faucet emitted a warm, pleasant spray when he turned it on. It burned when he stepped under it, and the pain made him arch his back and hiss. The chill inside him mixing with the hot water was less than ideal. It would have to do. 

Sherlock didn’t have the energy to do anything but stand under the warm water, his head leaning against the wall of the shower. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed under the water. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing. 

It warmed him up a bit though, and after a while he shut the water off. He got dressed quickly and walked out to the sitting room, flexing his fingers. Mrs. Hudson had left him a cup of tea on the table by the window. He felt a strange surge of emotion at the sight of it. He picked it up, curling his fingers around it, and sat down in his chair. One light was on. The fireplace was cold and empty. John’s chair taunted him from across the room. John should be in it right now, but he was somewhere else in London grieving his wife while Sherlock was grieving too. 

The cup of tea grew cold as he took small sips, staring at John’s chair. He closed his eyes. Seeking comfort, he paced the halls of his mind palace until he came to John’s wing. Passing by the negative section, he went to the memories of their early days. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and he blinked them away. The hollowness had settled in his stomach. He wasn’t sure it would ever go away. Time passed. He finished his tea. He didn’t feel any better. 

Figuring there was nothing else to do, he left the cup on the table and went into his bedroom. His sheets were neatly made, just how he had left them that morning. It was hard to believe that just that morning he had been unaware of everything that would happen. Just that morning, he and John were still friends. Just that morning, Mary had still been alive. He punched the bed, over and over, and then fell onto it, making a low noise in the back of his throat. He pressed his face into his pillow, trying to stay quiet. Trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson up.

His throat was raw, his body numb. He curled up under the blankets and shivered, closing his eyes. Praying that when he woke up tomorrow this would all be a dream. Just a bad dream. But as he was drifting off, as he finally allowed exhaustion to overtake him, he knew that wasn’t true. 

His dreams that night were haunting, strange. Blue light, rain washing away blood. A feeling of being pulled under, getting high again, no one there to save him. And the sound. The awful, terrible sound John had made. 

And when Sherlock woke up, heart pounding, sweating, hands clenched around his blankets, he had the feeling he wouldn’t be seeing John Watson for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Bad_ \- U2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCdltGg4EzM)
> 
> [_when the party's over_ \- Billie Eilish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbMwTqkKSps&list=PLWW_WuTkXOmPU0OTlsHtjPI98i10KShCA&index=7&t=0s)
> 
> Word count: 3,990
> 
> The dialogue in the first part of this was taken directly from the end of _The Six Thatchers._
> 
> I'm going to try to update this once a week, but it might be closer to once every two weeks. It'll depend on how busy I am and how much time (and motivation) I have to write. I don't have a chapter count quite yet, but I think it will be longer than what I've previously written. Once again, each chapter will feature drugs and suicide. It will only get worse from here. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this!


	2. Chapter 2

_You’re the first to fight_

_You’re way too loud_

_You’re the flash of light on a burial shroud_

_I know something’s wrong_

_Well, everyone I know has got a reason_

_To say, “Put the past away”_

_I wish you would step back from that ledge_

_My friend_

_You could cut ties_

_With all the lies that you’ve been living in_

_And if you do not want to see me again_

_I would understand_

_I would understand_

Sherlock sat in his chair, looking into the kitchen. He could hear the relentless pounding of the rain on the window behind him. It had been ten hours, fourteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds since Mary had died.

He knew that it probably wasn’t a good idea to count, but he couldn’t do anything else. The hollowness hadn’t gone away overnight, not even a little. He was holding yet another cold cup of tea. It was full. He hadn’t even tried to sip at it. John’s chair was still taunting him, the flat cold and empty. There were traces of John and Mary everywhere. It was driving him crazy. Sherlock thought and he thought and he thought about what to do. Finally, he picked up his phone and made a call. 

*****

The office was painted a turquoise colour. There was a stained-glass window at the bottom of the wall opposite the door. The side walls were cut in a way that the rooms next door were visible only through slits at the bottom. Sherlock figured that the blue was supposed to be aesthetically pleasing, but it’s resemblance to the light in the aquarium set his teeth on edge. The window was nice enough, the floor slits weird. The chairs were brown leather and not nearly as nice as his own chair back in his flat. 

Ella sat across from him, surveying him. Her hands were folded over a notebook in her lap. Neither of them spoke. 

“Why are you here?” The question was asked after careful consideration. She must have known who he was. Sherlock didn’t answer. “You mentioned a nightmare. Have you had it again since the last time we spoke?” Sherlock still didn’t respond. The nightmares were becoming more of an issue. Blood, always blood, and the blue haunting light. And John. Sometimes Mary, but always John. He tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. “This is a two-way relationship, Sherlock.” He knew that. Of course he knew that. He just didn’t know what the hell to say. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” Her tone was gentle, but firm. 

“I need to know what to do,” he said finally.

“About?” 

Annoyance flared through him. “About John.” He kept his voice even and steady, tried not to feel anything when he said John’s name.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he said, not being able to resist. He didn’t have the time for this. John was somewhere, and Sherlock wasn’t with him. He had no way of knowing if John was okay. Physically, not mentally, because of course he wasn’t okay mentally. 

“I need you to elaborate.”

“John’s wife died, and you seemed to know him. At least I know he was your patient. I need you to tell me what to do. What the protocol for this situation is.” 

“What situation?” 

Sherlock frowned. He didn’t understand why people thought therapy was helpful. This wasn’t helping him at all. “What I should do. I killed his wife.”

Ella’s mouth opened, the first emotion she’d shown since he sat down. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police-”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Not literally,” he snapped. “I made a vow. I told them I would protect them, and then Mary had to go and jump in front of a bullet that was supposed to kill me. Not her. So yes, I killed his wife.”

“You’re obviously feeling guilt right now,” she said, “and you’re grieving. It’s perfectly natural.” 

“I don’t care how I’m feeling. I need to know what to do about John. Not me. I’m fine.”

“I’m not sure how to help you. And besides, you’re not fine. You’re obviously not fine, or you wouldn’t be here.” That was logical, and he knew it, and he knew that she knew she was right. He also knew that he didn’t care one bit. 

“Just tell me what to do. You knew him, you know what he’s like,” Sherlock growled. 

“I’m afraid I can’t talk about my former patients, due to confidentiality. I can, however, give you advice based on what you have told me. I can’t base my rationale on what I know about him. And I most certainly can help you manage your own feelings. Going through the death of a loved one is difficult, and-”

Sherlock stood up, breathing heavily. “I don’t want help processing anything. Goodbye.” He stalked over to the door, pulling his coat off the hook on the wall.

“If you would like to book another session,” she started to say, but he was gone. 

It had finally stopped raining. The sun had yet to come out. Sherlock tugged the coat around his shoulders and knotted his scarf. He picked his head up, held it high. Nobody paid him any attention as he called a cab.

His heart clenched as he stepped inside and gave the driver his address. He almost turned to the side, to say something to John, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly. The cab smelled faintly of takeaway, though not any of his usual takeaway restaurants. He watched various people out the window and tried to deduce who they were and what they were doing. His brain moved at a slower pace than usual. 

When he got back to the flat, he made the decision to remove John’s chair. He picked it up and dragged it up the stairs, setting it just outside of John’s bedroom. He couldn’t bring himself to go into John’s bedroom. Not yet. It was too _John,_ too much of a reminder of all he had failed to save. 

Mrs. Hudson was standing in his sitting room when he went back downstairs. He ignored her and went straight to his chair, carefully looking away from the indents in the rug where John’s chair used to be. It was strange to be able to see fully into the kitchen. 

“Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked her. He clasped his fingers beneath his chin. 

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

“John’s chair is missing.”

“I moved it.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “I thought that would be fairly obvious.” 

She sighed. Good. That meant he was acting somewhat normal. “The funeral is this afternoon. Are you planning on attending?”

That was news. Sherlock’s heart stopped. Figuratively, of course. Hearts didn’t actually stop unless one was dying. Or dead. Like Mary. He shook his head to clear away that line of thought. “The funeral?”

“For Mary, of course.” She frowned disapprovingly. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get invited?”

Sherlock, in fact, had not been invited. “I’m not going.” He crossed his legs. Mrs. Hudson’s frown deepened. 

“It’s Mary.”

“Yes, I know it’s Mary.” 

Shaking her head, she left the room. “John would be happy to see you there.”

 _John would be quite happy to never see me again,_ he thought bitterly. He wasn’t aware of the fact that the funeral was that afternoon. He had somehow missed it. To make sure, he checked to see if John had told him.

John had not.

He tipped his head back, clasping his hands even tighter. A burning feeling settled in his eyes and throat, an interesting contrast to the ever-present numbness. 

*****

It wasn’t his best idea, he reflected as he stood in front of the church. It wasn’t even in the realm of good ideas. He hadn’t been invited to the funeral, so logically he shouldn’t be attending the funeral. He was sure no one would be expecting him. But really, when had he ever done what people expected?

John wouldn’t want him here, but his desire to see John was too strong. He needed John, needed him almost as much as he had craved cocaine. Hence why he was standing in front of the church. His plan was a good one. Arrive late, leave early. Stand by the door. Pay your respects to Mary, apologise silently. Make sure John was alive. Make sure he’s doing okay, or at least as okay as could be expected. Let no one see him. And then leave. 

He had deduced the exact time and location of the funeral based on Mrs. Hudson’s departure, and it had started ten minutes ago. Sherlock had never been to a funeral before. He didn’t know what to expect. He quietly pushed the door of the church open. The lobby was brightly lit, and he quickly slipped inside. The doors to the sanctuary were open. The light inside was dimmer. Sherlock discreetly stepped inside and pressed his back against the wall, crossing his hands behind him. 

Through the gloom, he could make out the vague figures of people. The pastor was speaking. “...devout are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.” A verse. He wasn’t surprised. John and Mary had gotten married in a church they had had Rosie baptised. It was fitting that she would have a funeral service in a church as well. Sherlock figured that the service had been going on for less than five minutes. The pastor didn’t look as though he’d been speaking for all that long, and the church was silent. No sounds of crying, of even any emotion, which led him to believe no one else had spoken. A chill went down his spine. It was hard to tell whether it was from the cold or from something else, but the room was rather chilly. He scanned the pews for John.

There he was.

Sherlock could see the back of his head. He was wearing a black suit jacket. The collar of his dress shirt was black as well. It matched with his own. Sherlock wished he could be sitting next to John, comforting him. He stared at John for so long that he almost missed Mycroft, sitting in the very back. Only ten feet away from Sherlock. He squinted. It couldn’t be Mycroft. Yet it was. He sat stone-still, his back turned to Sherlock. That wasn’t great. Sherlock was counting on John’s obliviousness and everyone else’s to be able to attend the funeral unnoticed, but Mycroft would know. Mycroft always knew. Too late to do anything about it, Sherlock sighed and hoped Mycroft wouldn’t say anything to John or to anyone else. 

He returned his focus back to the front of the room. Someone was speaking. Molly, he thought it was. He listened for a moment. Yes, it was Molly. She was saying something about how Mary was a good friend and mother. _She shot me,_ Sherlock thought. He hadn’t gotten angry at her, not really, not about that. He was angry at her for lying to John. John didn’t deserve a liar. But then, John always did associate himself with people who weren’t the best. Case in point. He had crashed a funeral just to see John, who didn’t want anything to do with him. 

Molly had taken her seat. There was John, standing up slowly. Gripping the pew behind him for support. He walked to the front of the room and turned around, something grasped loosely in his hand. Sherlock’s heart twisted unpleasantly at the sight of his face. It was drawn and pale, exhausted and grieving. Sherlock could see that much in the dimness. He opened his mouth to say something. His voice was quiet, guarded. “Mary is-was-” his voice broke. Sherlock put a hand on the wall to steady himself. “She was my wife. And I-I miss her.” John swallowed. “The first time I met her, I had just gotten off an incredibly long shift. It was flu season, and parents were so worried. Unnecessarily, for the most part. Very frustrating.” He tried for a weak smile. “Anyways, I walked out of my office to see her. She came over and told me that she’d be starting work here. I was a little skeptical at first, because I didn’t even know we had an opening. In my defence, I had been off for a while. Ever since-” he paused, took a breath. Ever since I died, Sherlock added silently. “Well. We started talking, and next thing I knew, I was buying her dinner.” His smile was a little stronger this time. Someone in the audience chuckled. “We just...hit it off from there, I guess. I don’t know. She made me feel alive, made me feel happy again.” Sherlock’s lips twitched. He used to be the one to make John feel like that. He was the reason John stopped feeling like that. Twice now. “I’m certain that I’ll never forget about her. I’m sorry she had to die. I’m sorry for how she died.” John grimaced. Sherlock almost doubled over, his words hurting, stinging. He was certain John was directing those words at him. He had to force the lump in his throat to go away. John, pausing, scanned the audience. Sherlock pressed back into the wall. John’s gaze settled on someone and he furrowed his brow. He looked away, but then glanced up again. “Well. She wasn’t always the best, but she was-” he stopped again, his eyes flicking back to the audience. Sherlock followed his gaze to Mycroft. Of course. John wouldn’t have expected him to be there. “She was my wife. I loved her.” John cleared his throat and took a seat, after leaving his eyes on Mycroft as he sat down. Sherlock glared at the back of Mycroft’s head.

John didn’t cry. Good. That was good. Probably. Sherlock wasn’t actually sure. John had cried at his funeral, or so he had told Sherlock afterwards. And he almost did at the grave. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that. He decided not to think about it. A few more speeches were made. Sherlock silently apologised to Mary. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It should have been me, not you. Would have, even. I’m sorry I failed you. I’m sorry I failed both of you._ He closed his eyes, kept them closed to compose himself. Only opened them when he heard mumbling and low voices. Mycroft stood up. Interesting. Mycroft made his way over to John. Jealousy flared once, quickly, in his gut. It should be him going to comfort John. Not his brother, who was sure to say the wrong thing. 

“My condolences for your loss,” Mycroft said, coolly. Sherlock cocked his head, listening. 

“Thank you,” John said stiffly. 

There was a pause. “She was lovely.”

“Yes, she was.” 

Sherlock saw Mycroft reach up and adjust his tie. “A shame my brother couldn’t be here today. I’m sure it was-”

“He wasn’t invited,” John interrupted. His voice cut Sherlock to the bone. Suddenly, he didn’t want to hear anything else. The room had turned stifling, hot and uncomfortable. He turned and left.

Sunlight blinded him. He held up a hand to shield his eyes, walking quickly. He needed to get away. Needed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but the dark room, too hot and too cold all at once. Somewhere where he didn’t have to hear John tell Mycroft all the ways he hated Sherlock. 

Sherlock blinked back tears and held his head high. He opted not to call a cab. He had been walking a lot more than usual. Cabs were painful. He only took one if he really thought he needed to, such as he did after Ella’s. 

Mrs. Hudson was back at Baker Street and waiting upstairs for him. “You didn’t go to the funeral,” she scolded. “John would have wanted you to.”

Sherlock took off his scarf and coat. “No, I didn’t.”

“Why not, Sherlock? Don’t you owe it to him?”

Sherlock walked over and took a seat in his chair. “Kindly refrain from discussing matters you don’t know the full story to,” he said, well aware it was rude. 

She opened her mouth indignantly. “Sherlock Holmes. John is your friend. His wife died. You can’t just sit there!”

“I killed her,” he snapped. “I stood there and let her take a bullet for me. I let her die. You don’t know a thing about what John wants. He never wants to see me again.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes widened. She said nothing. He regretted his outburst almost instantly, but her questioning was becoming annoying. He knew he should be better to John. He didn’t want to hear it from her, too. He was tired. Tired of feeling like he failed. Knowing he did.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

He gave her a weak smile. “Please do not mention John.” She nodded. “Oh, and if I get too-too full of myself, or too arrogant, please just say ‘Norbury.’”

“Norbury?” She was perplexed, he could tell.

“That would be lovely.” He flashed her another smile and then turned to the fireplace. She didn’t say anything else as she went back downstairs, but later came up with a cup of tea, setting it beside him without a word. 

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge it, too deep in his mind palace. He hadn’t been sure of what to expect when he’d arrived at the funeral. He had no way of knowing just how utterly painful it would be. He took a shaky breath and envisioned John’s pain-wracked face. He had caused that. He was the reason John even had to attend the funeral. He should have immediately arrested Norbury, should have done something, anything to avoid her shooting at him. 

He should have pushed Mary out of the way.

He forced himself to replay the memory, over and over. He deserved the pain, deserved it because it was his fault. John already went through enough, already went through war, the death of his best friend. Sherlock should have known better than to add to it. John’s groan echoed in his mind. He pressed his hands over his ears in an attempt to make it stop, tucking his feet up, rocking back and forth. And then stopped. Forced himself to hear it. 

_It’s your fault._

*****

“Sherlock?” Molly’s tinny voice came through the phone. 

“Yes?” He was sitting on his chair, in his bathrobe.

“You should-well. You should probably come see this,” she said, her voice cracking. “Barts. The morgue.” 

“Okay.” He hung up. Molly sounded distressed. Very distressed. 

He ran out of the house, not bothering to put on anything else. Today was a good day. He hadn’t thought about John yet, well, not until then. He pushed all thoughts of John out of his mind. Molly needed him. It would be a good distraction. He hurriedly flagged down a cab.

When the cab pulled up to the Barts, he immediately leapt out onto the pavement. His shoes clicked against the ground as he hurried in. The hospital was strangely empty, most of the lights in the hallways turned off. Molly met him at the entrance to the morgue. She’d been crying. Her face was tearstained and her eyes were red. She gave him a watery smile. 

“I think you should see this.” She pushed the door open and he followed her. Most of the tables had been removed, and most of the equipment, leaving only one table. A body was underneath. A little over five-and-a-half feet, judging by the form under the sheet. Molly walked over to it. Sherlock followed. She slowly pulled the sheet back. 

Grey-blond hair. Eyes closed, a bullet wound neat in the temple. The skin was sallow, pale. 

It was John. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath, horrified. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. John wouldn’t-John wouldn’t do that. _He was suicidal before you met him._ Sherlock didn’t say anything. He just kept looking at the body. It was John, and yet not. John’s skin was much paler than usual, already starting to retract. Dehydration. 

“How-why…” 

“This morning,” Molly said. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Estimated time of death was sometime last night. Bullet wound.” 

Sherlock nodded numbly. “Suicide.”

“Yes,” she said. He breathed in deeply through his nose and pressed his eyes together. Tears threatened to fall. Molly gently touched his arm. “There’s something else.” 

He opened his eyes again. “What is it?”

She handed him a small piece of paper. His heart skipped a beat. His name was written across the front of it. He unfolded it. 

_You did this to me._

That was all that was written. He made a low noise in the back of his throat. Molly tightened her hold on his arm, but he roughly shrugged her off. He spun around, leaving the morgue. The door slammed shut behind him. He took off at a run, not sure where he was going. He needed to leave. He threw open doors, tore down empty corridors. 

Finally, panting with body-racking sobs, he crouched down and put his back to the wall. He grasped his hair, pulling slightly, and screamed. Then screamed again. 

Sherlock sat upright in bed. His blankets were all around him, some thrown to the floor. His pyjamas were soaked through with sweat, his eyes wide in the dark. His heart was beating irrationally fast. Just a dream. It was just a dream. A deep, gripping fear overcame him. It might not be a dream. It might be real. John didn’t have to go to the funeral anymore. He didn’t have any obligations other than Rosie, and Rosie was a reminder of Mary. John had a past with suicidal intentions. Now, he’d not only had his friend jump off a roof in front of him, but his wife died as well. Of course it would be too much for anyone to bear. 

Sherlock pressed a hand to his wrist, taking his pulse. Elevated. By a lot. He was terrified. Terrified that his dream would become real and John would shoot himself. It would be his preferred method, Sherlock knew. He had a gun in his old flat. Kept it in a drawer in the nightstand. Often took it out and just looked at it. It was one of the first things he’d deduced, but the only thing he’d chosen to keep to himself. He wasn’t sure why he’d made that choice, actually, but it had seemed like something he should do at the time and so he did. Maybe it was because Sherlock knew what it was like. Knew what it was like to feel like nothing and everything was happening all at once. Overwhelmed and at the same time empty. 

The bullet wound had been neat, carefully placed at his left temple. A cry sounded in the small bedroom, and Sherlock jumped before realising it was him. He rubbed his hands over his face. _Deep breath. In, one, two, three. Hold, one, two. Out, one, two, three, four._ He repeated this, over and over, until his breathing finally slowed. His eyes burned. There was no going back to sleep now, not with the threat of another nightmare. 

He had to make sure John was okay. He just saw him, yes, but the funeral was over. Besides Rosie, John had no reason to stay alive. Rosie was a compelling reason, of that Sherlock was certain, but death did strange things to people. Death caused John to marry an assassin. 

An insane laugh bubbled up from his throat. And then another. This was ridiculous. So ridiculous he had to laugh in order not to fall apart. He slipped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. He didn’t have the strength to make tea, not really, and so he flopped down on the couch. His limbs were tired. His mind was not in the best shape. Not for the first time since Mary’s death, he craved cocaine. This was the strongest craving so far. He wanted it. He needed it. The brief relief, the manic energy, everything. The way he didn’t have to be himself even if just for a little while. He felt better, more alert, more euphoric when he was on cocaine than he did at any other time, save for when he was solving cases with John. 

Sherlock had to stay sober. He couldn’t give in, not yet, not until he knew John was okay. He watched his hand shake as he made himself stay on the couch. He refused himself even a cigarette. The sun rose, slowly. He hadn’t turned on any lights, so consequently the flat lightened considerably. The sight would have been peaceful, nice even, if not for the hole in his chest. Hollowness that could only be filled by John. Light glanced off a cup on the table. He watched dust swirl through the air as he waited for it to be late enough. Time slowed down as he laid across the couch. He was getting impatient, and worried. He would go to John’s flat, make sure John was okay. Apologise. See if there was anything he could do.

There wouldn’t be, of course. John would probably allow him to stay for a few awkward minutes, before Sherlock came up with a plausible excuse to leave. He would stay long enough to ensure that John would live. If he wasn’t certain, he could come up with something else to do. He was counting on John’s politeness to at least see him. He would be angry. Sherlock was fully prepared to go through any and all forms of verbal abuse. He was even prepared for John to hit him again, or do something. He was willing to put up with it, with any of it, to see John. Even if it was probably the last time Sherlock would ever see him again. 

And he just really needed to see John. 

Not a good reason, he knew, but he needed to see him. It had barely been a week without John. He thought maybe time and space would help but it didn’t. It was getting worse every day. He was getting worse every day. 

Sherlock needed John. 

*****

Sherlock had been prepared for many different outcomes to seeing John, none of them positive. However, he hadn’t been expecting John to not answer the door. 

Molly was the one to answer it. He furrowed his eyebrows, blinking at her. There were dark circles under her eyes. Rosie was in her arms. It was evident that she’d been crying. “Hi,” she said quietly. He pursed his lips and nodded, suddenly finding it very difficult to speak. He hadn’t prepared for this outcome.

“I just wondered. How things were going, you know,” he said lamely. “And if there was anything I could do.” 

Molly blinked away a tear and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It’s, uh, it’s from John.” She handed it to him. He took it and glanced down. Interesting. Not what he had been expecting, not at all. He supposed it was a positive sign. Or a very negative one. 

“Right.”

“You don’t need to read it now.” 

Sherlock’s stomach sank. That meant it couldn’t have been good. He assumed Molly had read it, or at least had a fairly good idea of what it said, judging by her expression. Pity. She tried for a shaky smile. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” His stomach sank even further. “He says...John says if you were to come round, asking after him, offering to help…” she paused. Sherlock tightened his hand around the note. 

“Yes?”

“He said…” she swallowed. “That he’d rather have anyone but you.” Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly. He tried to keep his lips from turning downwards. “Anyone.” He blinked twice. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes. He ignored them. She looked down, at Rosie asleep in her arms, then turned around and went back inside. 

He slowly spun away from the door, putting the note gently in his pocket. This was the absolute worst outcome there was. And one he wasn’t prepared for. In a daze, he made his way to the sidewalk to call a cab. At least John was alive. A choked laugh escaped his lips. His chest tightened. The cab pulled up quickly, and he stepped inside. “Baker Street, please,” he said. 

He looked out the window, trying to get the courage to read John’s note. He needed to read it. No matter what it said. Especially if it said something negative. He owed it to John. He held his breath as he unfolded it. The creases were neat and sharp, but worn. John had creased them over and over, probably debating if he was sure this was what he wanted to say. 

_Sherlock,_

_This is the end. I can’t do this anymore, not now. Not with everything that happened. Please, just stay away from me. I hope you understand._

_Don’t try to text me because I won’t answer._

_I’m sorry._

Sherlock read it through once, his heart pounding. Then a second time. It didn’t seem real. He read it again. The words sunk into his brain, ripping him apart. Everything inside him screamed in pain. His breath came faster. The cab ride took ages and yet wasn’t long enough. He numbly paid the cabbie. He made it up the stairs before the first tear fell. He took the note, laid it open and pinned it to the mantelpiece. The knife stuck straight up. He was sure to avoid any of the words. It couldn’t be real. John wouldn’t-John wouldn’t say it was over just like that. As if the past years meant nothing. _You killed his wife._ Sherlock clenched his hands in his hair. _You killed his wife._ His stomach hardened even more. _You killed his wife._ He was crying so hard he couldn’t breathe. _You killed his wife._

It was over. He would never see John again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Jumper_ \- Third Eye Blind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tS8ZAgHAqc) I listen to the 1998 edit so that's what I've linked.
> 
> Word count: 5,045
> 
> The Bible verse I used during the funeral is Isaiah 57: 1-2. I'm not religious nor have I been to a funeral, but as Sherlock explains, I thought Mary would want a pastor to speak at her funeral. 
> 
> Next update will be in either one week or two depending on how busy I am. Part of it is already prewritten, but I'd rather it be a day late than terribly written. It will go into detail about Sherlock getting high again. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read and commented so far, it makes my day. :)


	3. Chapter 3

__

_Build love_

_Build God_

_Build provinces_

_Build calluses_

_Break promises_

_‘Cause I could never hold the perfect thing_

_And not demolish it_

_What am I thinking?_

_What does this mean?_

_How could somebody ever love me?_

_Talk to your man, tell him he’s got bad news coming_

“Wiggins?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” The patchy voice came through on the other end of the phone. 

“I need-” he paused. Took a deep breath. “I need some.”

*****

It had been seven days since Mary’s death. Three days since the funeral. Two days since the note. Sherlock wasn’t doing well. He was plagued by nightmares any time he fell asleep. He stopped eating almost completely. And he couldn’t stop thinking about John. He memorised the note John gave him. Memorised every swoop of John’s handwriting. Deduced exactly how hard he had been pressing down with the pen and what that meant. The note wasn’t John’s best handwriting, but it wasn’t rushed. He had taken his time, thought out what he wanted to say. Except for the sentence before ‘I’m sorry.’ That was rushed. He was pressing hard. Angry. None of this helped Sherlock feel any better. 

He went about the two days in a haze. He didn’t talk to anyone. It was possible that Mrs. Hudson had tried to talk to him. He didn’t notice if she did. The hours went by until it was too much to bear. He called Wiggins. Told him to come over. 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. “Client!”

Not a client. He didn’t respond, and soon enough Wiggins was entering his flat. He flopped over when he heard his footsteps. “Close the door behind you,” Sherlock said. Wiggins complied and took a seat on the table. 

“What did you call me here for?”

“I need you to make some for me.”

“Some what?”

“You know what,” Sherlock snapped. “Cocaine. Something to get me high.” 

“Cocaine? Why can’t you make it yourself?”

 _Because I’m incredibly lonely. Because you’re better than no one. Because I don’t trust myself to be able to get off this couch. Because I don’t trust myself to not immediately overdose._

“Because you can stay here if you do,” Sherlock said. 

Wiggins raised his eyebrows. “Won’t your boyfriend mind?”

Sherlock clenched his fingers into the soft material of his bathrobe. “Not my boyfriend, and no, he’s not here.”

“Really? Because last time I saw you, there was some-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said. “Just shut up. If you don’t, I’ll kick you out of this flat.”

Wiggins sighed and propped his feet up on the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Okay, whatever.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “Everything’s in the kitchen.”

*****

The syringe was prepared. Everything was prepared. Sherlock rolled up his sleeve. He wasn’t entirely certain where Wiggins had gone. No matter, he was irrelevant. He could feel his heart racing, anticipating the feeling. It had been a while since he had last been high. He picked up the syringe slowly, cautiously, making sure not to spill any. He poised the needle above his forearm, then lowered it slowly. The initial prick hurt a little, but he was used to it. He pushed down the plunger, slowly. No going back now. 

He emptied the syringe and then placed it in the bowl on the table. He crossed the room and sat on his chair, stretching his legs out. He imagined he could feel the drug flowing through his veins, travelling up to his brain. Ridiculous, of course, because he couldn’t actually feel it and besides, it would take at least a few minutes to start feeling the effects. 

He was expecting the initial high to be fairly pleasurable. It usually was, the first few times. Afterwards...not so much. Still pleasurable, of course, but paranoia and anxiety start to set in. He rested his hands on the arms of his chair as he waited. Within a few minutes, his arm started to go numb at the injection site. He shivered in anticipation. 

His heart rate started to increase. He counted around 105 beats per minute. Not terribly high, but a lot higher than his usual. His exhaustion lessened, his thoughts becoming more acute. Finally. The numbness and hollowness disappeared slowly until it was completely gone. 

He stood up slowly, stretching. He took a few hesitant steps. This was good, this was very good. He paced around the small flat, feeling very confined. He ached to go outside. _Going outside might bring you John,_ a small voice in his head said. He hit the heel of his hand against his head, then ran his fingers through his hair to clear his thoughts. John not talking to him seemed all the more bearable now. He almost couldn’t remember why he was upset. Everything was good right now. John was...gone. Sherlock was fine with that. Really, he was. He lived without John for way over half of his life. He had been fine then, he would be fine now.

“Mrs. Hudson!” He stuck his head out the door. “I’d like some tea, please!”

“I’m not your housekeeper, dear!” she shouted back.

“Oh, for god’s sakes! Have you seen Wiggins?”

“Who?”

“Never mind!” He slammed the door shut and made his way jauntily into the kitchen. Wiggins. Where was he? What good was a live-in drug dealer if he wasn’t going to make you tea? He filled up the kettle and loudly banged it down onto the stove, then set it to boil. 

He strolled into the living room and turned on his laptop. Cases. New cases. Were there any? He tapped his fingers impatiently while he waited. “Yes!” He grinned broadly. “Yes, yes, yes!”

**Dear Mr. Holmes,**

**I’ve heard that you are a famous detective. My daughter has recently gone missing. She’s been struggling a lot lately, but I haven’t noticed any suicidal signs or anything. She’s been hiding in her room. Yesterday she told me she was going to the grocery store. She never said anything else. I’m out of my mind with worry. No deaths have been reported, no bodies have been found. She just disappeared.**

**We do not have a strenuous relationship. None at all. In fact, we’ve both been very open with each other. Her father and I were divorced when she was born. She doesn’t stay with him, nor has she ever expressed interest in meeting him.**

**I’m going out of my mind with worry. The police haven’t been very helpful. They say she probably just ran away, but I have a feeling that something’s wrong.**

**Please call me.**

**-Olivia MacDonald**

This was brilliant. It was perfect. He couldn’t immediately deduce what was happening from the email. He would have to go to the crime scene. His plan of staying in the flat was immediately dismissed. A case was just what he needed. 

Sherlock scanned the email. Below the signature was a phone number. He despised calling clients, but it didn’t seem too bad now. He dialed, waiting with baited breath. “Hello?” A woman’s voice crackled through the other end. 

“Mrs. MacDonald?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

*****

The cab ride to Olivia’s house was relatively short. The cabbie kept glancing back towards him suspiciously, but Sherlock paid him no mind. He was dropped off in front of a row of houses. Identical brownstone buildings, spaced a few feet apart. He took notice of their similarity. Dull. 

He rang the doorbell of Olivia’s. She came to the door moments later, eyes red with tears. From the inside came the faint barking of a dog. Sherlock pulled off a glove to shake her hand. It was trembling slightly. He attempted to smile reassuringly but thought it was probably unnerving. 

“Thank you for contacting me,” he said smoothly. “A case was just what I needed.”

“Um. Okay. Why don’t you come in?”

Sherlock slid his glove back on and followed her into the sitting room. It was cosy, sunlight filtering through the windows. Worn furniture, pictures on the wall. The mom and daughter with a dog. 

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said, buzzing from the excitement. Or perhaps that was the cocaine. Or some strange mix of both. It didn’t matter, anyways. 

She took a shaky breath. “My daughter, Madison, is missing.” 

“Yes, yes, you mentioned,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Continue.” She looked slightly taken aback, but continued speaking. 

“I saw her two days ago. She came home from school, locking herself in her room. That was odd. Normally she’ll sit in the kitchen and do her homework. I put it down to her having a bad day. I asked her if she was okay, she told me to leave her alone. I scolded her,” her voice broke at this. “Later that evening, she asked if she could go meet with some friends. I said okay, if she didn’t stay out too late. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Did you contact the police?” Sherlock asked, eyes sparkling. This was getting good. 

“Of course,” Olivia said. “They said she probably just ran away.”

“Did she?”

“No!” She frowned at him. “She’s never expressed running away, or anything like that.” Sherlock scanned her. Single mom, divorced seventeen years ago. Lawyer, tried not to work long hours. A good mother, very supportive. 

“May I see her room?”

“Her room?”

“It may provide insight.” 

Olivia showed him up to Madison’s room. The room was smaller, painted grey. The bed had grey sheets and a fluffy yellow comforter. Their dog was curled up on the bed. Sherlock held out his hand and allowed the dog to sniff him, rubbing between its ears. Her clothes were mostly hoodies and jeans. The faint scent of mint lingered in the air. 

He pushed open the door to the bathroom and opened the cupboard over the sink. Interesting. Colognes and deodorants of a typically ‘masculine’ scent. He noted Dior especially. Not too cheap, but definitely on the lower end of the price range. In the shower was a shampoo-conditioner set, again typically ‘masculine.’ He narrowed his eyes and spun back to the bedroom. On the pillow was a crumpled flyer. He spread it out and looked at it.

*****

“This is brilliant!” Sherlock told Olivia when he was back in the sitting room. “Absolutely brilliant. Just what I needed.” He grinned broadly.

“So you can find her?” Olivia asked anxiously.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Would you like to come?”

“Yes,” she said gratefully. 

“I am warning you,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know if she’ll be in a good state.”

“I just want to see her.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the euphoric smile off his face as they climbed into the car. He pretended not to notice Olivia glancing suspiciously at him. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” she said after a moment of silence.

Sherlock shrugged. “I do enjoy doing this type of work, yes.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.” He decided not to respond. Olivia could think what she wanted. It didn’t matter to him. 

The cab pulled up in front of a small, grey building. A rainbow was painted on the glass door. Sherlock paid the cabbie and gestured for Olivia to follow him. Bells tinkled inside when he opened the door. “What is this place?”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Sherlock strode up to the front desk. A nervous-looking young woman stared at him. His shoes made tapping sounds on the tile. “Hello,” he said, smiling as widely as possible. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Can I help you?”

“I’m wondering if you had a meeting two nights ago, and if I could inquire about someone who’s been to one?”

“I’m sorry, that’s confidential,” she said, at least looking slightly apologetic. 

“I think they might be in danger,” Sherlock said, lowering his voice. 

“Unless you’re the police, I can’t help.”

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock snapped. “Is that not good enough?”

“I’m sorry. It’s company protocol.”

He rolled his eyes and walked back to Olivia. “Did Madison take the car?”

“No.”

“Brilliant.” Sherlock pushed back out through the door, Olivia at his heels. The door slammed shut behind them. Across from the small building was a park with a forested area in the middle. It was the perfect place to conceal something. Or someone. Olivia followed him as he dashed across the street. The trees were packed close together. A dim shaft of light filtered through the gloom. A small body laid on the ground. The figure was half covered with leaves. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and he didn’t miss the way Olivia gasped and covered her mouth. He knelt down next to the body and brushed a few leaves away. Madison was still breathing faintly, shallowly, her eyes closed.

Olivia bent over her with a sob, placing a gentle hand on her face. Madison’s eyes flickered open. “Mom?”

“Who did this to you, honey?” 

“Mom, I-why are you here?”

“He found you.” Olivia gestured to Sherlock, who waved politely. “Madison, I was so worried.”

Pain darted across her face. “Mom, I don’t-the reason this happened-” her breath was shaky. “It’s Dylan, Mom.”

“Dylan? Does he go to your school?”

“No. I’m Dylan. I’m trans.” She-he, actually, Sherlock reminded himself-took a laboured breath. Understanding crossed Olivia’s face. 

“Oh,” she said. “Is that why this happened?”

“Yes.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Sherlock said. He could feel the effects of the cocaine beginning to wear off. He needed to be back at Baker Street when that happened. “I have deduced exactly who and how this was done, and sent the details to Scotland Yard. They are sending their least annoying officer. Afternoon.”

Sherlock took quick steps away from them as they watched him go in amazement. His hands began to shake. He instructed the cab to take him back to Baker Street as quickly as possible. He barely made it up the stairs and onto the couch before he started shaking. Coming down from the high was unbearable. He usually chased the high with more cocaine, let himself stay in the manic state, but not this time. He needed to feel guilt over what he did. John didn’t like it when he used drugs. John didn’t approve of Sherlock using drugs. _John isn’t here now. John doesn’t care anymore._ He trembled and shook and clutched the couch as he came down. He gritted his teeth as reality started to sink it. The few hours of forgetting were nice, but the world felt like it was crashing down on his shoulders again. Somehow the pain was even worse than before. The hollowness returned, filling him. 

*****

Sherlock managed to wait a day before using again. Wiggins had prepared him a syringe, much like last time, but now he had disappeared into Sherlock’s bedroom instead of leaving the flat completely. He collapsed onto the couch as he eagerly waited. He had no plans to leave the flat. Instead he would take this time to reorganise the flat and remove anything of John’s. 

He started with the desk, cocaine pumping through his veins. He vaulted over the coffee table, not worrying about Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He threw open the first drawer, pulling papers out and letting them fall to the floor. Bank statements, bills, everything financial. Pages with John’s signatures. He ripped the papers apart and threw them away. Mycroft made sure he was on top of his payments. He had kept the old papers for sentimental value. He scoffed at that. 

The next drawer was the one where John used to keep his gun. The sliders were worn, the drawer having been opened frequently when they used to go on cases together. Dust swirled through the drawer when he opened it, the faint imprint of John’s gun visible on top of the pages. Sherlock wasn’t sure what they were. He sucked in a breath when he saw them. Old newspaper clippings. **Hat-man and Robin,** one proclaimed. **Sherlock & John: Blogger Detectives,** another said. **Suicide of Fake Genius,** said a third. John kept these. Obviously. In the same drawer that he kept his gun in. Sherlock cocked his head. 

The door to his flat opened and he spun around. 

John stepped through the door, hesitantly, one of his hands raised in greeting. The other was clenched at his side. Sherlock knocked into the drawer, stumbling forward, and pressed a hand onto the desk to support himself. He then stepped carefully over the pile of papers on the ground, moving carefully towards John.

“What are you doing here?” He hated the way his voice sounded, off somehow, unsure.

“I came to see how you were doing,” John replied easily. “Evidently, you aren’t doing so well.”

“You’re doing better than I would have expected,” Sherlock said, astonished. His hair was nicely combed, his face clean shaven. His eyes were bright, nothing like they had been at the funeral.

“Yes, well,” John said. He didn’t elaborate.

Sherlock stood there, newspapers in one hand, the other clutching the table. “I’m high.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re not...mad?”

“No.” John stepped quickly across the room and sat down in his chair. “I’m not. Don’t know why. Probably should be, actually. But I’m not.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and gave a watery laugh. He turned back to the desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.” John gave no response to this, but Sherlock could feel him watching him. Sherlock carefully placed the papers on top of the desk, not sure what to do with them. It hurt to throw them away, yes, but it was a reminder. An actual picture of John. Not that he couldn’t see John anytime he wanted, of course, simply by closing his eyes, but he wanted to be able to hold the images. Hold them, and look at them, imprint them onto every corner of his brain. The surface of the desk was cluttered, filled with odd remnants of the past. A cat, the lucky cat from the Chinese market. Somehow it ended up there. The pink phone. 

He threw the cat away and left the phone. It would be useful if he ever needed to contact Irene. Not that he would want to, but it was a reminder of how he beat her. A trophy of sorts. When the table was sorted, bills and paperwork filed away in a neat pile, the newspapers back in the drawer, he turned around back to John. John hadn’t moved. 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked, again.

“I missed you,” John said. “I blamed you, wrongfully, and I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Sherlock said, a lump forming in his throat. His voice had gone gravelly. “You were right to blame me.”

“Maybe,” John said. “Maybe not. It is what it is.”

Sherlock cracked a smile at that. “Want to help?” He motioned to the rest of the room.

John glanced around. “Help you get rid of me? No, thanks.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” John raised his eyebrows.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” Sherlock said, trying and failing to hide the wastebasket from him. John reached in and pulled out a receipt.

“I remember this. It was our first case together.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It’s old. No need to keep it around.” He faced the mantle before John could see the tears in his eyes. He pulled everything off at random. Various envelopes, the skull. A slide for his microscope. Most of it ended up in the trash. 

After restoring the mantle, he made his way into the kitchen. “Tea?”

“No, thanks,” John said. 

Sherlock decided not to put the kettle on, then. He didn’t need tea, and if John didn’t want any there was no reason to bother. The fridge was stocked with various body parts and little food. John would disapprove. Sherlock wondered for a moment where he was and why he wasn’t scolding him. 

John was still in his chair. “Everything okay?” Sherlock asked, crossing the room to get his violin. 

“Just tired,” John responded. His eyes looked a lot darker then they were when John arrived. He looked older, weary. 

Sherlock coaxed out a few high-pitched notes on his violin. “Where’s Rosie?”

“With Molly.”

“She can come here, you know.”

John smiled sadly. “I know.” He stood up and walked to the door. “I better get back to her. It was nice seeing you, though.”

“Wait!” Sherlock called, setting down the violin. John didn’t wait. He walked out the door. Sherlock collapsed onto his chair and shut his eyes. He could feel the cocaine high starting to ebb away. He squeezed his eyes tight and waited for the inevitable. The hollow feeling started to return. His chest grew heavy. When he opened his eyes, John’s chair was gone.

“Wiggins!”

Wiggins walked out of Sherlock’s bedroom a few minutes later, still high. “Yes?”

“What did you do to John’s chair?” Sherlock tried to muster anger, but could only manage a faint flicker of annoyance. “What did you do to it?”

“I didn’t touch it.” Wiggins leaned against the counter.

The door to the flat opened again. Sherlock whipped his head around. Lights danced in front of his eyes, and he blinked to clear them away. “John?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Lestrade said. “It’s just me.”

“I thought-I thought you were John.”

“No,” Lestrade said. 

“Did you touch his chair? He was here, sitting in it, just a minute ago,” Sherlock demanded. He glared at Lestrade.

“Nobody’s been in this flat besides us,” Wiggins said from beside the counter. “It was a hallucination.”

“A hallucination?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled. “He was here. I know he was. I saw him. I talked to him.”

“You were alone. You were talking to yourself.”

Sherlock started to shake, then. “You mean…” he swallowed. “It wasn’t real?” Sherlock loathed how broken his voice sounded, how much this affected him. 

“What’s going on?” Lestrade crossed the room. “Did you use again?”

Sherlock shook his head and then nodded. A tear slipped down his cheek. His whole body was quivering.

“Let’s get you to bed.” Lestrade wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and helped him to stand up. He guided him to his room, laying him gently on his bed. Sherlock curled under the blankets. The hollowness had increased. Lestrade closed the door. “I’ll be outside when you wake up. Then we talk.” 

Sherlock sighed deeply, trying to regulate his breathing. _It wasn’t real._

*****

He stumbled out of his room an hour or so later, wiping sleep from his eyes. Lestrade was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Sherlock took a seat next to him without saying a word. 

“You were high again.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“What was it? Did you make a list?” Sherlock wordlessly handed it over. He made it every time he used, right before he injected. Lestrade scanned it and then crumpled it up. “Mycroft will want to see this.”

“No, please,” Sherlock said. “I won’t do it again.”

“Sherlock...you’re an addict.” Sherlock had nothing to say to that. He glared at Lestrade. “Fine. Fine.” He put his head in his hands. “If I find you on this stuff again-just one more time!-I’m telling Mycroft.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, dignified.

Lestrade stood up. “I came to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, though that was about as far from the truth as he could get.

“Evidently,” Lestrade replied dryly.

Sherlock crossed the room and picked up his violin. It was crucial that he played, that Lestrade left. Otherwise Sherlock might start asking him about John. And then Lestrade might start to suspect, or worse, say something indiscreet to John himself. So. Yes. Lestrade needed to leave. 

He didn’t take the hint. “Where’s that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The one who was with you earlier.”

“Oh. Wiggins? No idea.” Sherlock resumed playing, screeching out high notes, sharp and quick. He heard Lestrade sigh under the assault of the violin. “Goodbye.” He gave Lestrade no choice but to exit the flat, slamming the door rather hard behind him. 

*****

The next time he shot up wasn’t nearly as pleasant. Not that the first few times had been pleasant, but the euphoric high only lasted for a few minutes before paranoia started to sink in. He couldn’t shake the feeling that what he was doing was wrong. John wouldn’t get out of his head, either. Thoughts of _it’s your fault_ and _he hates you_ and _he deserves better_ swirled around his mind. He couldn’t shut them out. His body shaking, he climbed into a cab and directed it to Newport Cemetery. The same cemetery he was buried in. It was quite ironic. He wasn’t certain of John’s rationale for burying Mary there, but he was sure there was something. Or not. Grief did strange things to people. 

Sherlock had to lean on the cab door to get himself out, and almost fell over on the way to the cemetery gate. He leaned against it, heart pounding uncontrollably. His hands were shaking and sweating as he fumbled with the latch. He closed the gate behind him.

He didn’t know where in the graveyard Mary was buried. He walked up and down the rows of graves very slowly, searching. Searching. He avoided the area where his grave was. John may have buried her in the same cemetery, but Sherlock was certain he wouldn’t want Mary to be near him. His steps were slow and measured, his stomach churning. Every so often, white spots flared in his vision and he had to stop, dizzy. The sunlight shone, too brightly, too hot. His head ached. This was not a pleasant high. 

Sherlock finally found Mary’s headstone. He collapsed to the ground in front of it as his legs gave out. Sweat rolled down his face, but he shivered. He rubbed his hands across his face. He was too far gone to feel guilt 

“You sure you want to be here?” Sherlock jumped at the familiar voice. No. No. He couldn’t be here, not right now. He couldn’t see Sherlock, not like this. A hand roughly grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Dark blue eyes met his. His face was contorted, scowling. Angry.

“I’m sorry, John.”

John sighed and removed his hand. Sherlock missed the warmth, even though the grip hurt. “You shouldn’t be here, Sherlock.”

“I know.” His voice was lower than usual, gravelly.

“Then why are you?” John narrowed his eyes. “Are you high?”

“Yes.” Sherlock saw no point in lying. 

_“Sherlock.”_ John pressed a hand to his forehead. Usually when John said his name like that, in that tone of voice, it was with exasperated warmth. Sherlock sensed no warmth this time. Anger and annoyance and something else underneath. Sadness, emptiness. 

“Are you okay, John?”

“I should be asking you the same thing.” John laughed humourlessly. “Seriously, Sherlock. How could you think this was a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, nettled. “Let me ask you again. Are you okay?”

John shook his head. “No. No, I’m not okay. I was doing fine. I was doing great, actually, before you _killed my wife._ You absolute bastard.” 

Every word sent spikes of pain through Sherlock. He doubled over as if he was actually being physically hurt. “I’m sorry-I didn’t-”

“Save it,” John said, sneering. “Sherlock, I meant what I said in the note. It’s over.”

“Was there ever any chance?”

“Yeah. Maybe, yeah. Before you showed up to my wife’s grave high out of your fucking mind. Maybe there was a chance. Before. But there sure as hell isn’t a chance now.” Anger. That’s all Sherlock could read in John. It was visible in the way he clenched and unclenched his hands, the way his posture was military-straight, the way his face was lacking its usual affection, the way his lips were pressed. Sherlock shivered, John’s cold, hard stare boring into him. 

“John, please,” Sherlock said. It was a pleading whisper.

“Please what?”

“I need you,” Sherlock said plaintively. He loathed how pathetic he sounded, how pathetic it was to _need_ another person. 

“You need me?” John raised his eyebrows and laughed again. “You, Sherlock Holmes, needs me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I need you.” He thought perhaps that was the most honest he had been in weeks. It was the first time he had admitted to himself how lost he was without John. The first time he allowed himself to grieve over the loss of his best friend without feeling overwhelming guilt. He would not cry. He wouldn’t. He was stronger than that. He stood up and faced John. 

John shifted forwards as if he was about to hit Sherlock. Sherlock flinched. “Should’ve thought about that, hm? Before you did what you did?” 

“I-yes, I should have, but-”

“No buts.” John shook his head. “I swear to God, Sherlock. I’m furious at you.” 

“You should be,” Sherlock said. His voice was steadier than he felt.

“I can’t believe you did this to me. Not only once, but twice. Twice you stole someone I loved, made me watch them fucking die.”

“I didn’t actually die,” Sherlock pointed out, while the irrational part of his brain pointed out that John just said that he loved him. _Irrelevant!_

“That’s not the point, Sherlock! I thought you had, and that’s bad enough, okay? Do you even know what that’s like? Watching someone you love die? And don’t say you loved Mary because you didn’t.” 

“No, I don’t know what that’s like,” Sherlock said, though maybe he did have a good idea of what losing someone felt like. _I lost you._

“Exactly,” John said viciously, curling his lip.

“She took a bullet for me,” Sherlock pointed out. _It wasn’t entirely my fault. Please understand, John. I need you. I can’t lose you, John. I know I’m to blame but I need your forgiveness._

“Yeah, but you thought you could do it alone. You dragged Mary and I all around London, solving your bloody cases, without a single thought to our safety.” 

“I took precautions,” Sherlock said weakly.

“Not enough,” John said, breathing heavily. “So, yes. You’ve got your chances. You had your chance at redemption. You’ve failed, Sherlock. You can’t possibly understand why I’m doing this. You’re shit at emotions. I never want to see you again, so please leave my wife’s grave.” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. “You fucking machine. I hate you.”

Sherlock collapsed to the ground after this. His legs gave way and he fell, slowly, avoiding John and his venom. His heart iced over. Protection. John’s words cut him raw, stripped him open, so he froze himself. Avoid. Lock out the emotions. It was too much to feel. He wanted to sink into the ground, sink so low into the earth that he burned at the core. _Please, just let me go. Let me go. I don’t want this anymore._

“Sherlock!” And Lestrade was running to him. 

Sherlock lifted his head, becoming aware of the salty tears on his cheeks. He glanced wildly around. John was nowhere to be seen. He frowned. It must’ve been real this time. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Mary’s grave. Obviously,” he said. Shit. The high was starting to wear away. Lestrade would surely notice. 

“You’re high again.” Not a question.

“How did you find me?” Not an answer.

“Sherlock…” 

“John was here. Again. I know he was, he was just here. We need to find him.” Sherlock glanced rapidly from side to side as if John would materialise. 

“I’ve been watching you for a while. John hasn’t been here. I’m sorry,” Lestrade said. 

No, no, no. “But he was,” Sherlock whined. “You don’t understand. He was just here. I saw him, I talked to him!”

“Sherlock, you’ve been alone.” Lestrade grasped Sherlock’s arm and tugged upwards. He was suddenly too weary to resist. His head swam and pounded, his mind fuzzy. “Come on. I know this is hurting you, but you can’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“This punishment, or whatever it is. You’re not to blame. Stop thinking that you are.”

“I am to blame,” Sherlock said. “But that’s not the point. This isn’t punishment.” Though in a way it was, he supposed. The euphoric high that gave way to crushing lows. John was speaking to him, but when he came down it wasn’t real. The brief escape from reality that only hurt him more afterwards.

“Whatever you say, mate,” Lestrade said, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. He supported him tightly as he dragged Sherlock back to his cab. “For the record, though, John wouldn’t want you to do that.”

That was the wrong thing to say, but Sherlock had no power to argue. His body was shaking. His mind wouldn’t focus. His vision blurred in and out. “I don’t care what John thinks,” Sherlock managed. 

“Yeah, you do. You always have.” That was not a lie. 

The ride back to Baker Street was silent. Sherlock was nearly out of it as Lestrade practically carried him up the stairs and dumped him unceremoniously onto the couch. The last thing he heard was Lestrade saying, “I have to tell Mycroft. I’m sorry.” Sherlock tried to protest, but his vision darkened and he blacked out before he could respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Forever...(is a long time)_ \- Halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwqIPP4E5Vo)
> 
> Word count: 5,545
> 
> I'm...sorry. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write and the next one will be as well. I'm going to try to have it done in a week, but based on how this one went it might be a bit later. I'm not one hundred percent happy with this chapter but I don't think I can make it any better and I don't want to ruin it so here it is. I've been stressed and really busy, not to mention I've felt a bit sick, so it's been hard for me to sit down and write. Particularly something that's emotionally taxing like this. And since the next chapters are even harder to write emotionally...yeah. It's likely that the next update will be later than I'd like. 
> 
> I've never been high myself. I wrote this based on research I did about cocaine and cocaine highs, plus I took inspiration from The Lying Detective. If I got something wrong or unrealistic, please tell me in the comments. That's not my intention. Nor is it my intention to make light of such a serious subject, and I hope I haven't done that. 
> 
> Thank you to all the kudos and comments. They encourage me to keep writing. And thank you so much for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

_And so there’s a change_

_In your emotions_

_And all these memories come rushing_

_Like feral waves to your mind_

_Of the curl of your bodies_

_Like two perfect circles entwined_

_And you feel hopeless and homeless_

_And lost in the haze of the wine_

Sherlock woke up sprawled uncomfortably over the couch. His whole body ached. He told himself it was from the position he was in on the couch, denying that it had anything to do with the drugs destroying his body and the uncomfortable way he had crouched at the cemetery. He blinked, once, twice. The flat slowly came into focus though the sunlight left the edges of his chair blurry. His chair. The one that Mycroft was currently sitting in. He raised himself up carefully, wincing as his entire body protested. His head pounded. His mouth tasted of sawdust.

“Oh, look, he’s awake,” Mycroft said coolly. 

“Hello, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, and blinked again. Lestrade was leaning against the fireplace. 

“Did you make a list?”

“What list?” Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance. 

“You know what list,” Mycroft said, neatly containing his anger behind his cold demeanor. Sherlock waved a hand dismissively towards the table in the kitchen. He winced again. 

Mycroft’s eyes swept over the flat as Lestrade walked over and picked up the list. The papers in disarray around Sherlock’s desk. The lack of John’s chair. The flasks, test tubes and beakers spread over the table near his microscope. Lestrade handed Mycroft the list. Mycroft read it, and then turned to Sherlock.

“Could be worse,” Sherlock said, attempting humour. He failed miserably, his voice a croak. 

“This isn’t good, brother mine,” Mycroft said.

“You think I don’t know that?” Sherlock struggled to sit up. Pain flared through his body. “You think I’m unaware of what I’m doing?”

“No, I think you’re an addict.” His voice was calm and smooth. Sherlock longed to punch him, shake him, make him anything but calm. He also couldn’t move from the couch. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock snapped. “Nothing matters.”

“Detective Inspector, will you give us a minute?” 

Lestrade exited the flat, dropping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he did so. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It’s for your own good.” Sherlock didn’t respond to him, but did soften his glare. He understood why Lestrade did that, he really did. Sherlock wasn’t okay. He hadn’t been okay. Lestrade was just worried about him. Sherlock wished he wasn’t. It was infuriating. Involving Mycroft was annoying and completely unnecessary, but he found himself too distracted to be fully angry at Lestrade. 

Mycroft leaned back in Sherlock’s chair and folded his arms. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. His scowl returned full-force. “Because Lestrade _meddled.”_

“The Detective Inspector is simply worried about you, Sherlock. As am I.” And Sherlock never knew what to say when his brother expressed ‘affection.’ Mycroft sighed after Sherlock stayed quiet for minutes. “You know how this goes, Sherlock. You get addicted. You cut everyone out. You get angry when I bring it up. Then I have to pick up the pieces, you fix the issue, you promise you won’t do it again. Can we not skip to the part where you fix it? Do you really have to do all this?” Sherlock tipped his head back and waited for Mycroft to continue. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, truly I am. I know it’s hard for you, given how you feel about Doctor Watson. I understand that, but-”

“You understand nothing,” Sherlock hissed.

“I understand more than you think.” Mycroft’s face remained impassive. 

“No, you _don’t._ You can’t possibly know what it’s like to-to-”

“To what?” Mycroft arched a thin eyebrow. 

“You know perfectly well what,” Sherlock said, his body buzzing in anger. 

Mycroft smiled coldly. “Why don’t you say anyways?”

“No.” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t think I will. Anyways, it’s irrelevant. We were talking about drugs. Not this.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about the drugs?”

Sherlock groaned. Mycroft always made things so difficult. “Lesser of two evils.”

Mycroft sighed. “The drugs, then.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been using again.”

“Yes.” If he was going to be forced to talk to Mycroft about this, he would be as vague and unhelpful as possible. Maybe it was petty. He really didn’t care. 

“Why?”

_“Mycroft.”_

Mycroft sighed again. “You can’t do this, Sherlock.”

“This conversation is getting nowhere,” Sherlock announced. He stood up, or rather attempted to. His head spun and he was forced to sit back down. Mycroft waited. 

“I’m doing this because I care about you,” Mycroft said, his voice stiff. “I don’t like seeing you like this, Sherlock. Did you ever think about that?”

“I can make my own decisions.” Sherlock’s voice was unnaturally tight, even to him. At that moment, he was furious. Mycroft didn’t, and wouldn’t, understand. How could he? 

“I want what’s best for you.”

“Too late for that now,” Sherlock said, and regretted it the second it left his mouth. He was fairly certain Mycroft knew, but it was something he really didn’t want to talk about. 

“I know that you must miss him terribly-”

“Shut up. Just shut up. I already said we weren’t to discuss this.” Sherlock was breathing heavily, and his pounding head was the only thing stopping him from lunging at Mycroft or simply leaving the flat altogether. 

“All right. All right.”

“Thank you.” 

Mycroft took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held them up. “I’d offer you some, but it would be best not to tempt you.” Sherlock scowled. Mycroft flicked open a lighter and lit a cigarette. Sherlock’s fingers twitched and he wanted to take it, but his head still spun and ached. Mycroft inhaled deeply and then sent smoke billowing into the room. Sherlock imagined he could smell it. “Now. How can I get you to stop?”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said, and flopped back onto the couch.

“Sherlock.” 

“Leave it alone, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “You don’t get it. Stay out of it.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow again. “I am your brother.”

“Stay out of it,” Sherlock repeated. “I don’t care that you’re my brother. I don’t want you involved.” 

For the first time Mycroft’s cool demeanor flickered, briefly allowing anger to appear on his features. Something sparked in his eyes. “I won’t have you doing this.”

“You’re not my handler, and neither is Lestrade.”

“I care about you. We both do.” 

“I can do what I want!” Sherlock’s voice raised slightly. 

“You might kill yourself!” Mycroft’s voice rose to match his.

“I don’t really care,” Sherlock growled. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” Mycroft looked shocked. “This is worse than I thought.”

“Oh, go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, anger bubbling in his stomach. So what if he might kill himself? So what? It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. 

“I won’t,” Mycroft said.

“It’s my flat.” 

“Sherlock.”

“I said, go away.”

“Fine. Fine.” He raised his hands in exasperation. “But if I find that you go back on that stuff, even one more time-and I have ways of knowing-then I’m sending you away.”

“Away?”

“Rehabilitation, dear brother.” Mycroft stood up and smiled, but there was no warmth to his smile. It wasn’t an empty threat. Sherlock knew that. “I will have the Detective Inspector and Mrs. Hudson keep an eye on you. If you use, I will know.” He straightened his tie and turned to the door. “Afternoon.”

Sherlock glowered at his back as he left the flat. 

*****

Mrs. Hudson came up later that afternoon bearing pastries and tea. Sherlock was curled on the couch with his back to the door. He heard her set the tray down and then her hand was on his shoulder. 

“Come on,” she said. “It seems like you could use the distraction.” 

He flipped over and cracked an eye open. “No, thank you.”

“It’s not a choice, Sherlock,” she said firmly. “You told me once that England would fall if I left Baker Street. Well, England is certainly falling with you holed up in this flat.” Tears pricked at his eyelids after she said that, but he wasn’t sure why. “Now, get off your couch and come play Cluedo with me.”

“John never wanted to play Cluedo with me,” he said, pitifully, and he immediately hated himself for it. Mrs. Hudson didn’t respond. She gently rubbed her hand over his shoulder, giving him a moment to compose himself. “It might be the victim that did it,” he said after a moment, and was relieved to hear her laugh. He rolled over and sat up. His back was still sore, but better than earlier. He ran a hand through his hair and was disgusted to find it greasy. 

Mrs. Hudson set up the game board. The game was fun. Sherlock even teased Mrs. Hudson for picking Miss Scarlet, asking her if she was reverting to her days of exotic dancing. They didn’t once mention John, and though Cluedo was ridiculous, it was a nice distraction. Something else to focus his mind on. 

When it was over, Mrs. Hudson’s expression turned serious. “We need to have a talk, young man.” 

Sherlock levelled his gaze to meet hers. There was no use trying to get out of having a talk. If she wanted to have a talk, they were going to have a talk. He manoeuvred himself into his chair. Mrs. Hudson took the chair he used for clients and set it opposite him and then took a seat. He waited. 

“Why are you doing this?”

He barely contained an eye roll. It was evident why he was doing this, why did everyone seem so intent on forcing him to say it? “You know why,” he settled on saying. 

“Explain it to me.” Her eyes were stern, reminding him of his parents. He felt five again, being asked why he brought bees into the house or why he stole the raw meat they were using for dinner. 

“He hates me,” he said, and that was all he was able to say before his throat closed up. 

“I’m sure he doesn’t-”

“He does,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way he looked at me.” _You didn’t hear the sounds he made. Didn’t see the pain in his eyes._ “He said-he said that I made a vow.” His voice broke. You swore it. “I failed him.”

“You didn’t fail him,” Mrs. Hudson said gently. “He’s grieving, you’re grieving. He’s blaming you because he can. Because otherwise he’d be angry with no one to tell it to. Because you were there, because Mary sacrificed herself for you. But it’s not your fault.” He let her words sink it, imprinting them into his mind palace. _But it was my fault. She’s wrong. I could’ve stopped it._ He tilts his head up, gives himself time to take a breath. 

“You’re wrong,” he choked. ‘Taking a breath’ wasn’t very effective, after all.

“I’m not. But you have to come to that conclusion on your own. Sherlock, please. Mycroft told me to make sure you didn’t start using again.” Her voice was stern again. 

“Of course he did.”

“I plan to do that. I may not be your housekeeper, but I do care about you.” Sherlock blinked tears out of his eyes. “Now, let’s play another game of Cluedo before I go back downstairs.”

Sherlock managed a watery smile and started shuffling the cards. The game went well. He won, of course, though his heart wasn’t fully in it. Mrs. Hudson insisted that he cheated, which led to yet another game, that one being more fun. And if Mrs. Hudson was doing this on purpose to get him to cheer up, well, then, it was working. 

After their fifth game ended in Sherlock flipping the board over exclaiming that he _couldn’t possibly have done it because it was him and he knew that he didn’t_ and Mrs. Hudson shaking in silent laughter, she told him to take a shower and that she’d be back later. His first instinct was to be offended, but then realised he hadn’t showered in several days. 

The water hissed as it came out of the taps. Sherlock winced and withdrew his hand as soon as he touched it, then proceeded to turn the temperature down too much. He laughed almost incredulously at himself. 

The water beat down upon him when he stepped in. It was warm, soothing, a steady pressure on his head. And it felt good. He generally showered every day, and the stickiness of his body was beginning to get to him. He squeezed shampoo onto his hands and lathered it in his hair. His fingers soothed his head. The water was warm, and for a second he thought he was going to be okay. The second quickly passed. Maybe there was some merit to a distraction, because now that he was alone, his mind immediately turned back to John. The calmness that had briefly filled him slipped away. He felt it coming, felt himself starting to fall, and knew he was powerless to stop it. His hands fell from his hair. 

The first night at Angelo’s. He had been so bloody _stupid._ John had shown interest in him, and he had-what? Made up some bullshit line about being married to his work. He laughed harshly, the sound loud in the small bathroom. He didn’t know, then, how essential John would become to him. Sherlock didn’t laugh much, before. He didn’t find much to laugh about. Deduce, yes. Insult the general population, yes. But finding something for him to be genuinely happy about was difficult. And then he was laughing, freely, joyfully, with John in the foyer after a long run through London alleys. He knew in that moment that he would never be the same. John would change him. And he had. 

Sherlock grabbed at his hair again. It was difficult to tell whether the wetness that seemed to be falling down his cheeks was from tears or from the shower. He twisted his hands into his curls, feeling a burn. He had been _happy._ He had actually been happy, and somehow he had let that slip away from him. 

It had been easy to tell when everything would change. He knew, as soon as he called John from the roof, that things would be different. Even he knew that faking his death (and worse, doing it in front of someone he cared about immensely) was considered a bit not good. He knew it, and he did it anyway. He spent the next two years waiting for the moment he could see John again. When he was being tortured, beaten to a pulp in the underground chambers of Moriarty’s secret network, the thought of John was the only thing that kept him alive. He had this elaborate plan. He would come back to John, surprise him. He was prepared for John to be angry. He thought John would get over his initial burst of anger quickly. It was what he did. Lash out, and then be cold and distant afterwards. He would go to John. He would explain everything. He had a whole speech prepared. He still had it memorised, for God’s sake. 

_John. I’m sorry that I did this. I never intended to hurt you. I realise that my actions were wrong, that I shouldn’t have done this. It hurt me too. I miscalculated. I miscalculated how much you cared for me, and I only saw it when I was lying on the pavement. If I could do anything, anything at all, I would take it back. I never wanted to do this to you. There wasn’t another alternative. You’re a soldier, you know that sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the people we love. Moriarty would have killed you. You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed his shooters to see me dead, so you would be safe. I would do it over and over again if it meant you would be safe._

_I spent the last two years dismantling Moriarty’s network. He may have died, but his network was spread deeply across all of Europe. It was hard, gruelling work. I’m not ready to tell you about all the details. Not yet. Someday, but not right now. All I’ll say is it was difficult. There were times that I wanted to give up. Times where I wished that I really had died. But then I remembered why I was doing this, why I was fighting to come back. I was fighting to come back to you. The only thing that kept me sane was knowing that I could come back to you. So yes, I am terribly sorry that I left. But I did it for you, and I came back for you._

He had hoped, maybe, that John would understand. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that it would be instantaneous, that things would automatically go back to the way things were, but he hoped maybe soon. When he saw John in the restaurant, all he wanted to do was bury his face in John’s shirt and hold on tight. 

He hadn’t expected Mary to be there, not at all. His speech was automatically pushed to the back of his mind, and a strange cold feeling enveloped him. Things hadn’t been the same since, and he knew it was his own fault. John moved on. That’s what people _did._ He didn’t realise how much it hurt on the receiving side. John was happy, afterwards. Happy with Mary. Happy with Rosie. He was able to forgive her for lying, forgive her for shooting Sherlock. And Sherlock did too. He had to. He had to forgive her, for John.

Sherlock didn’t realise how much he would miss John until he was gone. His urge to be with John was growing stronger each day. He needed John. He sunk to the bottom of the tub, wrapping his arms around his knees. Water streamed over him, flowed down his back and into his eyes. He wanted to crawl into John’s arm, press his face into John’s shoulder, feel safe again. He missed the fleeting touches. He missed the freedom they had on John’s stag night, when John’s inhibitions were lowered and he was feeling braver. Missed sitting next to him on the couch, his arm around John, John pressed up against his side. He needed a hug. He needed to be held. It was quite ironic, really, that the one time he got what he wanted was at John’s wedding. 

He gripped his knees tighter and lowered his forehead until it was touching his knees. He rocked back and forth slightly. John had hugged him exactly once. It was after the speech. After Sherlock made it known just how much he cared about John. The hug was brief. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reciprocate, but he knew if he did he might never be able to let go. John was happy at the wedding, and although there was a murder, it ended well. For John, at least. Sherlock looked around. Everyone was busy, socialising. He started to walk towards Janine, but even she was with someone. His smile slowly dropped as he felt the cold start to wrap around his heart. Worst of all, John was happy. John wouldn’t even notice if Sherlock left, because he was busy with Mary. His heart heavy, his steps slow, he tucked the waltz he wrote into the envelope and left the wedding. Everyone was happy, and no one needed him there anymore. 

That night had been the first time Sherlock truly allowed himself to cry over John. The first time he was selfish enough to miss him. John was there, he hadn’t really gone anywhere, and Sherlock missed him. The next morning, when he woke up, he decided that it really was the end of an era. He needed to move on. And so he did. 

The problem was that they fit together so perfectly. With John, Sherlock was able to let his guard down a little, become more relaxed. John didn’t judge him. John actually cared, and wasn’t ashamed to be the freak’s friend. John seemed happier when he was around Sherlock, in the beginning at least. His psychosomatic limp disappeared completely. He was doing better. Sherlock could tell that much.

If they were broken before, they were shattered now. Sherlock knew with certainty that nothing could mend this. The cracks were too deep, the scars jagged and rough. John would move on, like he always did. And Sherlock would be stuck, living without John until he died. 

He shut off the water and managed to wrap a towel around his waist. He shivered suddenly, in the cool air. He rubbed at his eyes and, oh-those were tears. He let out a despairing sob and leaned the side of his head against the wall. He didn’t care what Mycroft said. He couldn’t live without John. He needed to not be sober or he would quite literally fall apart and crumble to pieces. 

*****

Wiggins was lounging across the couch when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. He had taken care to make sure that the evidence of his breakdown wasn’t visible. His hair was freshly combed, his face washed. If he was acting off, well, that was to be expected. He could hide this. He could do this. Day by day, he could survive without John. 

“That was an awfully long shower,” Wiggins remarked. Sherlock scowled at him. “I assume you want me to move out?”

“What? Why?” He stopped walking and turned to Wiggins, suspicious. 

“What your brother said. How you’re not to get high anymore.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “I have no intention of actually listening to Mycroft. Our agreement still stands.”

Wiggins smirked at him and lazily stretched his feet out. “Good, then,” he said. “I’ll make you some more for tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, and settled down in his chair to wait. “Make it an eight percent solution. I need something stronger.” Wiggins raised his eyebrows at him, but said nothing. 

*****

The next time Sherlock injected, he decided it was crucial that he stayed in his flat. The last time he had gone out, Lestrade caught him. He couldn’t be caught. Not now. He didn’t want to go to rehab. Sherlock didn’t care that he was destroying himself. There was nothing left for him. 

The rush took him quickly. His hands quivered, the empty syringe on the table taunting him. His thoughts sped up, flashed in his head. His eyelids twitched when he closed them, racing through the hallways of his mind palace. He was looking for John before he realised it, but the wing was closed. That was weird. He fell to the ground, slamming his fist on the door. 

He was shaken out of this by a knock on his door. Sherlock stood up and smoothed out his shirt. His dressing gown was crumpled from how he had been sitting, and he tugged it down. He composed himself, briefly glancing in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and stubble was visible. He hurried to the kitchen and then hid the syringe in the refrigerator. It didn’t matter who was there. He didn’t want anyone to see that. He steeled himself, then walked to the door. He half expected it to be another hallucination of John.

It was Molly.

He blinked, once, then raised his eyebrows. “Molly.”

“Yes, er,” she said. “May I come in?”

He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. She took in the state of the flat, of the wastebasket overflowing with papers. Random bits of Sherlock’s old life were scattered around the sitting room. Half torn, some things smashed on the floor. He had a difficult night last night. He had started _remembering_ again, and with the remembering came an aching longing for John. Molly cleared her throat and perched at the edge of the couch. Sherlock took a seat in his own chair and crossed his legs. “Why are you here?” He estimated that he had several hours before he started to come down. Good. Molly surely wouldn’t stay for that long. 

“I came to check on you,” she said nervously. “You haven’t been in the lab for a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock said, and did not elaborate.

“Clearly.” She swallowed and glanced around the flat. “Are you doing all right?”

He laughed. “No. What did you expect?” Hurt flashed across her face, but he didn’t care.

“I know-Sherlock, I know-” she seemed to be unable to get the words out. “It must be so difficult.”

“Know what?” A bubble of anxiety formed in his stomach. 

“I know how you feel about him,” she said quickly. 

Sherlock clenched his fists into the arms of his chair. “He’s my friend. Was my friend.” The correction hurt.

Molly shook her head. “You’re in love with him, Sherlock.”

The air left his lungs in a second. His mind froze, his body stilling. “No, I’m not.” That was a lie, of course. Sherlock had been in love with John for almost as long as he could remember. He thought he had done a good job of hiding it, thought that it was unnoticeable. He tried to push it away, tried to delete his feelings, but was unsuccessful. 

“Yes, you are,” she said, smiling sadly. “I see the way you look at him. You’d do anything for him.”

“I’m _not,”_ Sherlock said. His lungs felt like they were filling with water. He was drowning. He was drowning in his own emotions, and he would never resurface. 

“Sherlock. It’s obvious,” she said gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not in love with him!” The words burst out of his mouth. His hands were sweaty and shaking. “I’m not. No.” But Molly kept looking at him, kept looking at him with pity, and he hated her. “What would you know, anyways? He’s my best friend. He was my best friend, and now he hates me. So even if I was,” he paused and took a breath, “it wouldn’t matter.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Her voice was soft. 

He hardened his glare, but she didn’t look away. “You know that he does.” Fury overtook him, rushing through his body, flowing through his veins and mixing with the cocaine. He stood up, gripping the back of his chair for support. “You told me, after all.”

“I did?” For the first time, Molly sounded confused. 

Sherlock gestured wildly to the mantelpiece. “The note, Molly. The one you gave me.” She nodded. He paced back and forth. “Stop lying to me. He hates me.” 

“Sherlock, listen-”

“No. Stop talking. You have no right to come here and talk about John. It is incredibly painful in ways you wouldn’t even understand. I don’t care what you think you know. You’re wrong. Wrong. I can’t be in love with John. Please leave.” He felt a small spark of remorse curling in the pit of his stomach at the pained expression at Molly’s face, but didn’t care enough to stop. “I’m doing what I have to do, Molly. Isn’t that what we all do? Do what we must to survive?”

“Cocaine isn’t the way to do that-”

“It is for me!” He scowled at her and stopped pacing for a moment. “Don’t you understand? It is what I need to do.”

“You’ll get addicted. It might kill you, Sherlock, don’t you-”

“I’m not addicted.” He panted heavily. “I’m not. Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality.” _John would disagree._ He shook his head once, quickly, and raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t expect you to understand. You couldn’t. But don’t tell me what to do when you don’t.” 

“Okay, Sherlock,” she said softly. She stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help.” He spit the words at her, but she didn’t move away. Why didn’t she move away?

“I know,” she said. “I’m here if you change your mind, though.” With that she took her hand off his shoulder and faced the door. 

Sherlock made the decision in less than a second, but it felt like eternity. “Does he know?” He whispered it. It took too much courage, courage he didn’t have, to say it out loud. 

“No, Sherlock, he doesn’t,” Molly said, in that same soft voice, and left the flat.

Fear gripped his heart and he flung himself down onto the couch. Molly knew. She knew. His biggest secret. Which meant-others knew. Mycroft did, he was sure of that. Lestrade might. He evidently wasn’t as good at hiding it as he initially thought. 

It was only a matter of time before John knew. Not that it really mattered, because John hated him, but Sherlock didn’t want John to know. John couldn’t know. Anyone else could, but not John. Their relationship was already past mending, but this would push John over the edge. Sherlock could live without John. Sherlock could even live with John hating him. Sherlock couldn’t live with John knowing how much Sherlock loved him. 

And John would find out, and that would break Sherlock beyond the point of repair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Sometime Around Midnight_ \- The Airborne Toxic Event](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYPoMjR6-Ao) This is a great song and I recommend it.
> 
> Word count: 4,893
> 
> It's up later than I would've liked but earlier than I expected, so that's good. I think. I'm also happier with this chapter than I am with the previous one. The next chapter will hopefully be out in a week but I don't know yet. I think it'll be easier to write than this one, but I'll have to see how things go. I'll update when I can. 
> 
> Also, I did change the summary of the fic.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. :)


	5. Chapter 5

_Growing distance, free of explanation_

_We’re getting deeper in this mess_

_Take careful contemplation_

_I’d rather be spitting blood_

_Than have this silence fuck me up_

_This separation, time and space between us_

_For some revelation_

_You didn’t care to discuss_

_I’d rather be black and blue_

_Than accept that you withdrew_

It seemed like hours before Sherlock was able to move from the couch. His body protested at being forced to stay in one position for so long. He was shaking with withdrawal and nerves. His mind kept replaying the conversation.

Molly knew. Mycroft knew. Lestrade probably knew. 

Sherlock sat up and ran a hand through his hair. A glance in the mirror showed his eyes to be red and swollen. Strange. He didn’t recall crying, exactly, but then again he didn’t recall much of what he’d been doing before he came to. Wiggins was leaning against the wall, watching him. Sherlock ignored him. “I prepared some more for you,” he said. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied stiffly. “I’m sure I’ll be needing it later.” 

“Right, well.” Wiggins cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Oh, what do you want?” Sherlock squinted up at him. His head was beginning to pound.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with that woman-Molly, was it?-as you two were rather loud. I wanted to say that it’s not bad. How you feel.” Wiggins averted his eyes. Sherlock felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “Also I told you I knew that something was going on between you two.”

“Nothing’s going on between us,” Sherlock said, dully. “Remember? He hates me.” It had become a sort of mantra. He seemed to be permanently stuck in limbo between _it’s your fault_ and _he hates you._ Wiggins raised an eyebrow. 

“He didn’t. Previously.” 

“Whatever you’re trying to say, please just get to the point,” Sherlock said, more than mildly exasperated with him. 

“I just wanted to say it was okay. It is okay.” 

“Well. Thank you.” Wiggins nodded, once, and then departed the room. Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain where he slept, but he suspected that it was either back in the house they had been in or on his couch. He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Night had fallen when he got up again. He was exhausted. He could feel it deep in his bones, permeating him like a thick fog. He dragged himself from the couch, considering playing the violin, but almost immediately dismissed that idea and went into his room instead. 

It took him a while to fall asleep, even when reverting to his usual techniques of listing all of the atoms in descending order by atomic numbers. His dreams that night were anything but restful. They were strange and haunting, filled with the blue light reminiscent of both the pool with Moriarty and the aquarium. John was drowning in the pool while Mary lay dying on the edge. Moriarty was pressing a gun to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. The metal was cool against his skin. He was powerless to help them. He could only watch as they died ever so slowly. He couldn’t wake himself up, couldn’t get himself to snap out of the dream. He was forced to kneel there and watch as John finally sank beneath the water. 

He awoke to sunlight blinding him, not feeling even a little bit rested. He rolled over in bed, his mouth tasting of sandpaper. His head ached, though he was grateful it wasn’t as bad as the previous day. He stumbled out of bed and to the shower. It felt good to properly shower and not just stand under the water. 

When he was dressed and ready, he made his way into the other room. Wiggins was leaning against the kitchen counter. “Sleep well?” Sherlock scowled at him. “I’m going out.” Sherlock ignored him, instead looking for the syringe on the counter. There it was, in a small ceramic bowl. “I’ll be back later.”

“I’ll be right here,” Sherlock muttered, reaching for the syringe. He knocked a flask over in the process. 

“Careful,” Wiggins warned. Sherlock scowled again and righted the flask. Wiggins exited the flat. Sherlock didn’t know what he did most of the time, or if he was even in the flat. It made no difference to him whether he was in the flat or not. 

He injected himself the second Wiggins left, dropping the syringe back in the bowl. He set about preparing more as he wasn’t sure when Wiggins would be back, and he didn’t want to come down from the high for a long time. He wasn’t sure he could stand it.

After it was prepped to begin its reaction, Sherlock went back to his desk. He hadn’t thrown out the pictures of John, nor did he end up throwing out many of their little notes. Things like **I’m on a date, be back later** or **I’m out getting the fucking milk because you never do** made Sherlock feel like he was being ripped in two, but he couldn’t just throw them away. He ran string from the fireplace to the couch and pinned the notes to it. He tried to arrange them in chronological order, a progress of their relationship. Various bits and papers were also added to the string, save for the newspaper clippings. He stuck those to the wall. 

He was interrupted by John entering the flat. He was so surprised that he fell into his string, tangling it. He cursed loudly and set about untangling it. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. 

“It’s obviously something. Why are there pictures of me on the wall?”

“I miss you.”

“Christ, Sherlock.” John laughed coldly. Sherlock blinked at him and paused in untangling his string. “And I thought maybe you were normal.”

“I thought we established that I wasn’t,” Sherlock said softly, feeling his heart shatter at the words.

“No, I thought you were, but you’re not. Why else would you do this?” He waved a hand around the flat as Sherlock finished untangling his string. He noted that some of the pages were now out of order. No matter, he could rearrange them. He stood up and reattached the string to the couch. 

“You’re my friend,” Sherlock said, more calmly than he felt. “I miss you.” 

“Just friend?” John asked. Sherlock’s stomach twisted. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He didn’t elaborate. Only lies had detail, after all. He worked diligently on rearranging his notes. 

“Because I heard elsewise.”

“You heard wrong,” Sherlock said, refusing to meet his eyes. His pulse quickened and his hands started to sweat.

“Really? Because I heard that you were in love with me,” John hissed, and Sherlock stopped breathing. He couldn’t respond. “Which is, if I’m being honest, weird, Sherlock.”

“I know,” he whispered. _I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t want to fall for my best friend, I didn’t, I didn’t!_

“You know I’m not gay.” Sherlock nodded. “I could never have feelings for you.” He nodded again, pressing his mouth into a straight line. He had finally managed to put the papers in order. “It’s disgusting that you feel that way.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, a bit louder this time. Another piece of his heart broke off. 

“I can’t believe you’d do that to me. I thought we were friends, but I guess I’m just a-a sex toy to you or something?”

“What? No,” Sherlock said. “I’m not even sexually attracted to you. I’m not sexually attracted to anyone.” Another reason he was broken.

“You’re just saying that to try and deflect,” John said, venom in his voice. “Everyone’s sexually attracted to someone. Unless you’re not even human. Which, now that I think about it, might be true.” 

Tears pricked at the back of Sherlock’s eyes. “John.”

“Don’t say my name like that,” John snapped. “I don’t want to hear it come out of your mouth.”

“Okay,” Sherlock whispered, and the first tear fell. _No, no, this is the worst-case scenario. I’m going to lose him._

“I think you need to stay away from me,” John said, clenching and unclenching his fist. He breathed heavily through his nose. “That would be best. I don’t want to be around a freak like you.”

“You’ve never called me that before,” Sherlock said, and another tear fell. 

“Yeah, well, it’s true, isn’t it? You’re fucking gay. That’s not normal.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said plaintively. “I didn’t want to fall for you. I promise.”

“I don’t fucking care what you wanted,” John spit out. “Just leave me alone. I can’t be around people like you. How could you do this?”

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you do this to me?” John’s voice was ice. Sherlock shook his head, tears falling down his cheeks. His breath came in gasps. “Goodbye, Sherlock. Don’t contact me.” John exited the flat as suddenly as he came, slamming the door on his way out. Sherlock couldn’t breath. His tears were choking him. It was overwhelming. He curled up in the foetal position, hugging his knees tightly. _It’s your fault he hates you. Your fault, your fault, your fault._ He wished his solution was prepared. It would be so easy to slip away, make it an ‘accidental’ overdose. He wouldn’t have to deal with that anymore, wouldn’t have to feel the pain. _Your fault._ He rocked back and forth, praying it would end. 

Then he started to grow angry. He slammed his hand onto the floor. He fucked _everything_ up. His best friend, the only person he truly loved, was gone. Hated him. For killing his wife, and now for developing feelings for him. He hit the floor again, pushing himself up. Pain radiated up his arm, and he struggled to push himself to his knees. He clutched at the table. _Freak._ He was a freak, a psychopath. Of course everyone hated him. He was rude. Arrogant. Mean.

Sherlock reached into the drawer where he kept his small handgun. Shaking and sobbing, he curled his fingers around the trigger. He slowly switched the safety off, then stood up. He pressed the cool metal to his temple. Breathing in, breathing out. It would be so easy to do it. Just pull the trigger, end it. End his miserable, terrible life. His finger tightened ever-so-slightly around the trigger.

He couldn’t do it. He was too much of a coward. He coughed out a sob and pointed the gun to the wall, aiming it at the pictures of his face. _Coward._ He fired, a neat hole through his forehead. The wall splintered. _Freak._ He fired again. Another neat hole. _Inhuman._ Here he was, shooting the wall. Perhaps Donovan had been right after all. He fired again. _Psychopath._ Straight between the eyes. 

A pounding on the door startled him out of his helpless cries. Mrs. Hudson walked in. She halted. “Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing?” He shook his head, his hair flying wildly. She walked over to him and pulled him roughly to his feet. She pried the gun out of his hands. “I don’t know what you were doing with this, but it’s not going to happen.” He glared at her. “You’re not my first smackhead. Now, I need your handcuffs. I know you have them.”

“Salad drawer,” he choked out. _Please. Please help me. It hurts. It hurts._

She marched him over to the kitchen, observing the drug lab on the table. She clasped the handcuffs around his wrist and sat across from him. “Your brother made me promise to tell him if you were back on this stuff.”

“No, please,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.” 

“Please,” he pleaded. “He’ll take me away. You know he will.” His voice was rough from crying, his eyes red and swollen. Mrs. Hudson stared at him for a long moment. 

“Fine. John it is, then.”

“What?” His mouth fell open. “But John was just here. He knows. He hates me even more now.”

“John wasn’t here, Sherlock,” she said sternly, and he realised it was just another hallucination. Relief flooded him. _It wasn’t real. He doesn’t know._ “I’m taking you to see him. He’s a doctor. And your friend.”

“I can’t see him,” Sherlock said, but he _wanted_ to. Oh, how he wanted to see John again. Even if the circumstances were less than ideal. 

“You can, and you will.” She turned the gun towards him. “Out to my car.” He reluctantly followed her to her car. It was a red Aston Martin. 

“This is your car?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Now, get in the boot.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” 

“Sherlock.” She turned to him. “I mean this kindly, but. John doesn’t want to see you, so if you arrive at his flat he won’t talk to you. Get in the boot.” Each word felt like a punch in the gut. He climbed in the boot, knowing she was right. She slammed it shut behind him, encasing him in the darkness. He shut his eyes.

She drove much too fast. At one point he thought he heard the sound of _Ode to Joy._ He focused on that, trying not to think about John. It was pointless. Euphoric joy threatened to overwhelm him, but the crushing feeling of John’s hatred kept it at bay. Mrs. Hudson truly was a terrible driver. He felt the car crash into bins, drive over the kerb, before it came to an abrupt halt. He thought he heard sirens, but blocked it out. All was silent. 

Some time later, after lying in the dark, he heard someone crying. Fake crying, by the sounds of it. And muffled voices. Then, the boot was opened. He blinked in the bright sunlight. Mrs. Hudson and John were staring at him. “Go on, examine him!” 

“Hello, John,” he said, bumping his head on the side of the car as he sat up. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” He squinted at him. John had slight stubble on his chin. His hair was styled perfectly-trying to keep up an appearance. His face was drawn and tired. Grieving. He looked better than he had at the wedding, but not that much better. 

“Why did you bring him here?” John turned and glared at Mrs. Hudson. “I don’t actually want to see him.” Sherlock stayed silent at that. So he was still mad. Obviously. 

“He was shooting the walls,” Mrs. Hudson said tearfully. “Please, just take a look at him.” 

John sighed. “He does that when he’s bored. It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“He’s high, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. It was irrelevant, it didn’t matter. John didn’t care. 

John sighed again. “Fine. Why don’t you both come in.” 

Sherlock fell out of the car. His hands were still handcuffed, which led to an ungraceful near-faceplant on the pavement. “Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said, and hauled him to his feet. John opened the door for them. The last time Sherlock had been to his flat, Molly had given him the note. He leaned heavily against Mrs. Hudson. She took his cuffs off when they were inside the flat, satisfied he wouldn’t leave.

John’s flat was different from the last time he’d been inside, when Mary was still alive. The pictures on the walls were crooked, and the glass on one was broken. The picture of John, Mary, and him had been removed. He wasn’t surprised. The pillows had been replaced, light grey and plain now. “Where’s Rosie?” Sherlock asked hesitantly. 

“Sleeping,” John said coldly, gesturing upstairs and taking a seat on the couch. Sherlock fell into a chair across from him. “Mrs. Hudson, would you like a glass of water?”

“That would be lovely,” she said, sitting next to him and squeezing his wrist. 

“Sherlock?”

“What?” Was John actually being polite to him? 

“Christ, you’re out of it,” John muttered. “I said, would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes, please,” Sherlock said. He wanted to defend himself, to say he wasn’t that out of it, just surprised. He refrained. John disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with two glasses. He handed one to Mrs. Hudson and the other to Sherlock. Their fingers brushed briefly, and lightning sparked through Sherlock’s hand. John settled back on the couch. Sherlock took a small drink. 

“So. Why are you here?” Sherlock remained silent, motioning for Mrs. Hudson to tell him. 

“Sherlock needs a doctor.”

“No, I don’t.” _I need you._

“Look, can’t you just go to a clinic or something? I’m really quite busy,” John said, verbally slicing Sherlock to pieces.

“Let me rephrase,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Sherlock needs you.” Sherlock avoided John’s gaze by looking at his cup. 

“That’s bloody ridiculous,” John scoffed. “Sherlock’s never needed me.” 

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s. John glared at him. Sherlock cleared his throat. “It’s true.” He figured it was best to be honest. John couldn’t possibly get more angry. There wasn’t anything Sherlock could do to ruin it more. 

“What do you mean?”

“What Mrs. Hudson said. It’s true.” 

“Sherlock. Look. Honestly, I’m very angry at you right now and you’re not making it any easier. Just explain. Or leave.” 

“Can we at least talk about why you’re angry?” _Why you’ve been avoiding me? I know I killed your wife, but the avoidance is killing_ me. 

John laughed harshly. “You know why. So explain yourself.” 

_I’m drowning. I’m drowning without you, John. I can’t stop myself from sinking. I thought it would get better but it never does. It’s getting worse and I can’t stop it and I don’t want to be here anymore, not without you._ “I’m burning up.” He kept his eyes fixed steadily on John. He imagined he could feel the marks in his arm, feel them taunting him. “I’m at the bottom of a pit, and I’m still falling. And I’m never climbing out.” John looked pensive. _Please, please understand. Don’t make me say it._ John didn’t move, just watched him expectantly. “I can’t do it.” _I can’t climb out of the pit. I can’t stop sinking._ “Not now. Not alone.” The words left Sherlock’s mouth in a rush. He prayed he wasn’t giving too much away. 

“Stand up.” Sherlock stood up and placed his cup on the table beside his chair. John crossed the room in a step, roughly grabbing Sherlock’s hand. His hand was warm. Again, electricity laced through Sherlock where John had touched him. He curled his fingers around John’s hand. It might be the last time he’d ever have contact with John, so he would take advantage of it. John flipped his hand over and pushed up his sleeve. Sherlock wanted to tell him not to do that, not to look and see what he had done, but he could only watch as John sucked in a breath. His forearm was a mess. Small bruises everywhere, the skin broken and bleeding in the place where he’d injected earlier. So he wasn’t as gentle as he’d tried to be. “You weren’t lying.”

“When have I lied to you?” The words came out in a feeble attempt to get John to realise Sherlock still cared. Still trusted him. 

“You faked your own death!” John’s voice rose until he was shouting. “You let me grieve you for two bloody years! That’s a lie!”

Damn. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said weakly. 

“Don’t. Just don’t. Sherlock, okay? Just-” he cut himself off, panting. “Just go.”

Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand. “I need you.” It was the most honest he’d allowed himself to be in a long time, and it was absolutely true. 

John let go of his hand and brought his hands up to Sherlock’s chest. He pushed, once, hard, and Sherlock fell backwards into the table. His back hit it and pain erupted in him. He didn’t fight back. “John!” Mrs. Hudson rushed forward, but Sherlock waved her off.

“No. Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled.” He swallowed. “I killed his wife.” 

John hit him in the face, right above his eyebrow. It hurt instantly. His head cracked against the edge of the table, hard enough to break the skin. He was fairly certain his face was bleeding as well. Nausea rushed over him and he coughed. The cup of water fell off and broke on the ground, soaking into his trousers. John hit him again, this time in the jaw. Sherlock’s jaw was clenched in pain, so the punch itself didn’t hurt too much. The one to his nose right afterwards did, though. He didn’t think it was broken, but it hurt like hell. He crumpled to the floor, resisting the urge to wipe the blood trickling into his eye. 

“John, stop it!” Mrs. Hudson shouted.

“Let him,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “I deserve it.” 

“Stop-being-so-calm-” John snarled, punctuating each word with a kick to Sherlock’s stomach. He jerked around his foot, trying not to curl up and protect himself. His hands were bracing him up. Each blow hit his stomach, his ribs, his chest. He choked and coughed. Air was trapped on the way to his lungs. He didn’t think John would break his ribs, but he wasn’t certain. All he could feel was pain. His head was foggy, his breath coming in short gasps. Dimly, he heard Mrs. Hudson telling John that was enough, and then the blows stopped. Sherlock coughed. Something spattered the floor in front of him. He touched a finger to it, and it came away wet. Blood. 

“I think it’s best if we leave,” Mrs. Hudson said softly to him. He nodded, still curled over in pain. The cocaine was beginning to wear off, and the feelings came back to him more clearly. John did this. John hurt him. He knew, of course, that John had a temper, but he was still surprised. Every breath hurt, and he could barely stand up. 

“I need to go to Bart’s,” Sherlock choked out. “I think I may be bleeding internally.”

Mrs. Hudson supported him on the way out the door. The last thing he saw was John flexing his fingers, looking down at his knuckles, an expression of misery on his face.

Each bump in the road on the way to the hospital reignited the pain in his chest and face. Blood slowly trickled down into his eye, and even though he put pressure on it, it didn’t stop. He’d probably need stitches. 

Mrs. Hudson took him into the hospital. “Molly?”

“No. She can’t-she can’t know,” Sherlock said, looking around wildly. “She’ll tell Mycroft and he’ll take me away.” Mrs. Hudson sighed, but complied and took him to the A&E. The attendant on duty looked at him. Through a haze of pain, he explained what had happened, before his vision spun and blackened and he collapsed.

*****

When he woke up, he was lying in a bed. Lights blinked and flickered around him. A monitor was attached to his finger. His mouth was dry. The bruise on his back hurt. Everything hurt. Breathing the most. He wasn’t attached to an IV. He lay there until the doctor showed up.

“Mr. Holmes, how do you feel?” Sherlock groaned, and then stopped because it hurt. He shook his head. “You have a fractured rib, Mr. Holmes. And a pulmonary contusion. You know what that means?” Sherlock nodded. Fractured rib and a bruise on his lung. Of course he was coughing up blood. “You’re very lucky. It could have punctured your lung completely.” Sherlock coughed again and nearly blacked out from the pain. “We didn’t put you on any pain medication because you weren’t conscious to consent.”

“Anything,” Sherlock wheezed. “Please.”

The doctor tipped a small pill into his hand and then gave it to Sherlock. He put it in his mouth, ignoring how much it hurt to swallow. The relief was almost instantaneous. The pain ebbed away until he could breathe again. 

“Can I go home?”

“We’re going to keep you here to monitor you for a few hours, then you can,” the doctor said with a smile. “You have stitches in your forehead, by the way. Nasty fight you got in.”

Sherlock smiled grimly. Nasty fight indeed. “What do I need to do?”

The doctor explained that he would need to wear bandages and rest for most of the next week. He’d have weekly checkups until it healed, about six weeks. “I’m giving you enough medication to last for three days. After that, contact me. Don’t want you to get addicted.” He winked. Sherlock didn’t laugh. With that, he left the room.

When he was released, Mrs. Hudson took him home and fussed over him as he laid in his bed. She brought him tea and sat with him until he told her he needed to sleep. She left with a smile. He laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was careful not to put any pressure on his ribs or lungs. His breathing was still shaky, but much better than before. He absently reached up and touched his face. His fingers came away wet. He was crying again. _How did it end up like this? How did it get to be this bad?_

It used to be perfect between them. It should have been John bandaging his ribs, talking to him gently and soothingly. Instead, he had woken up in a strange room in a hospital because of John. He briefly considered texting John and telling him he was okay, but then realised that since John had done this to him he probably wouldn’t care. 

Once, before the fall, Sherlock had gotten injured during a case. It wasn’t bad, just a small wound in his shoulder that needed stitches, but John tended it immediately. His hands were gentle and steady, fixing him back up. That’s what John did. He fixed Sherlock, not broke him apart. Or, well, he used to. Now, Sherlock was just broken. 

He laid in the dark, his breathing raspy and unsteady, and wondered if John regretted beating him up. Probably not. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_THE QUIET_ \- Troye Sivan](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vykVdJDu28A)
> 
> Word count: 4,344
> 
> New tags added. Should have the next chapter up in a week I think, maybe sooner, maybe a little later. We'll see. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

__

_I’m walking down the line_

_That divides me somewhere in my mind_

_On the borderline_

_Of the edge and where I walk alone_

_Read between the lines_

_What’s fucked up and everything’s alright_

_Check my vitals signs_

_To know I’m still alive_

_And I walk alone_

Sherlock awoke to a splitting pain in the left side of his body. It was agony. He writhed for a moment before realising that only made it worse and lay still. He tried to take a breath, but that hurt even more. Spots swam in front of his eyes.

And then he remembered. Sherlock’s stomach plummeted. He saw John. He actually saw John and this time it wasn’t a hallucination. John beat him, kicked him and that was why he was in so much pain. His eyes burned with unshed tears. His body was on fire. He blindly reached out for the small bottle of pills on his nightstand. He tipped one into his hand and brought it to his mouth, swallowing it. Within a few minutes, he was able to breathe mostly painlessly, though it still felt constricted. He rolled out of bed, sure he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. It was still dark out. The clock on his bedside table read _3:31._ Ignoring the stiffness in his body, he walked slowly into the living room, leaning on the wall for support. His mind grew foggy. Right. He forgot how much he hated the fogginess of opioids. He ground the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying to clear it. It didn’t work. John’s face swam in front of his eyes, and he blinked to clear them. He somehow stumbled until he was out of his flat, facing the stairs to John’s old bedroom. He had only been up there once recently, to put John’s chair up. Sure enough, it was on the landing near his door. He took the stairs one at a time, still seeing John’s face. He pushed open the door and dragged the chair in, ignoring the fact that heavy lifting would be detrimental to his broken ribs. 

The room smelled faintly of John. Dust swirled into his mouth as he switched on the light. He coughed. He hadn’t allowed even Mrs. Hudson to come clean. The bed was neatly made, the sheets and blankets tucked in the corners with the military-precision Sherlock had expected from John. He placed the chair underneath the window. The wardrobe in the corner stood slightly open. A few of John’s old jumpers hung inside. Sherlock crossed the small room in a few steps, coming to a stop in front of it. He could see John standing there, right where he was. Could see him picking out what to wear for the day. He shook his head, his curls almost falling in his eyes. He hesitantly reached into the wardrobe and pulled out one of the jumpers. The soft material spilled over his hand and he brought it to his face. The John smell was stronger on the jumper than it had been in the room. He was aware of the dampness of the jumper on his cheek, aware that there were tears in his eyes. He sat down on the bed and clutched at the jumper, shoulders heaving. John. John. john. John put him in the hospital. John knew what he was doing, he was a bloody doctor. John _meant_ to do that. 

He fell backwards and curled up in a ball on John’s bed. Slipping under the covers felt too intimate and he shivered in the cool air. His chest heaved. Crying didn’t help his already-difficult breathing and he gasped for air. John hated him. He already knew that, of course, but now the last bits of hope were ebbing away. He coughed into the jumper, the damp patch growing every minute. John’s wing of the mind palace appeared, unbidden, and he tried to lock the door. It opened, John’s terrible expression staring at him. Pain ghosted over him as he replayed the fight. He could feel each kick, each punch. It was all so real. What seemed like hours later, but could have been minutes or even seconds, his eyes drooped closed and he fell asleep. 

He awoke much later to bright sunlight. He blinked, once. It was midmorning, judging by the position and intensity of the sun. He groaned as he rolled over. Something soft was in his arms. His room didn’t smell like his room at all. It smelled like John. He briefly wondered if John was in his bed with him before remembering that he was in John’s room upstairs. The sheets smelled comforting, and the jumper fit perfectly against his chest. 

He stood up and went downstairs, as slowly as he could. The bandages on his chest were tight, restricting movement. The medication hadn’t worn off yet, but he was still exhausted. An unfortunate side effect. He reached up and touched the stitches next to his eyebrow. It stung slightly, so he pressed harder. His eyes were unfocused, tired from sleep and blurry from the medication. Wiggins was reclining in his chair.

“You’re in my chair,” Sherlock said quietly. His voice was raspier than he’d expected, but a pulmonary contusion was bound to cause some issues.

“Bloody hell.” Wiggins stared at him. “What happened to you?”

“Fight.” Same, quiet voice, so unlike his usual. 

“With who?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock snapped, and coughed. “My ribs are broken so if you could just shut up, that would be lovely.” 

“All right,” Wiggins said, and shut up. 

Sherlock took the jumper into his room and placed it on the bed carefully. He didn’t think he could stand to be back in John’s barren room, but he wasn’t ready to get rid of every trace of him. Not just yet. He stared at the jumper for a long moment before returning to the sitting room. He moved slowly, and each step ached. He sat down on the couch cautiously, arranging himself in a way that was the least painful. Wiggins ignored him, and Sherlock was quite relieved to stare out of the window at the falling rain. 

*****

It only took Sherlock a week before he got bored. The week was spent being catered to by Mrs. Hudson and lying on the couch in a stupor. He was still in shock that John did what he did, and so spent most of his time thinking over everything. He thought so hard that his brain ached and turned to jelly but he still couldn’t think of a resolution. A few times he got high, and that only served to exacerbate his feelings of self-loathing. 

And then, once he reached a reasonable solution, he got bored. John wasn’t going to apologise, and seeing him was certainly out of the question. He was still in pain, though it had lessened, and he wasn’t sure his ribs could take another beating. He figured the only thing that might clear the dark haze in his head was a case. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t exert himself for at least three more weeks, but he didn’t give a damn about his health. So he shot up and went to check his email for cases. 

Sherlock was grateful for the cocaine. It took the edge off of the pain in his chest. It helped with the dark haze, allowing him to see the situation more clearly. It also helped him think faster and make his deductions flow more freely. He jotted down everything he had taken and then started up his laptop.

He had too many unanswered emails to read all of them, but one in particular caught his attention. It was from Olivia MacDonald, the same woman he had helped out earlier. Simply to satisfy his curiosity he opened it.

**Mr. Holmes,**

**You might remember me and my son Dylan. Again, I can’t thank you enough for what you did.**

**I have terrible news. Dylan has, to be blunt, passed away. I think he got jumped by the same people as earlier, I don’t know. I don’t care how he died but I wanted to let you know that I’m so grateful that I got a bit more time with him before his death. That couldn’t have happened without you. There’s going to be a funeral this Wednesday at 10:00. Please come. Thank you so much for what you did earlier. I can’t imagine losing him before I got to know who he really was.**

**Olivia**

Sherlock jumped out of his chair. “A murder! Excellent!” he said to the room at large. “Brilliant! With an already-suspected convict!”

“What was that?” Wiggins called from the kitchen. 

“There’s been a murder!” Sherlock paced around the small room. He was fairly certain that it wasn’t the same people as earlier. They were serving prison time for aggravated assault, but he knew that many people didn’t accept people like Dylan. Hell, those people probably wouldn’t accept him either-but he didn’t want to think about that right now. 

“Who got murdered?”

“Dylan MacDonald,” Sherlock said absently, already starting to think over the case. If he could go to the funeral and see the body he’d be able to get identification, and then if he could get to the crime scene he was certain he’d be able to figure it out. “I’m going out for a while tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Wiggins said. “I’ll come.”

“Really?”

“Murders are interesting.” Sherlock couldn’t argue with that logic. John would usually scold him for being excited about a murder, but John couldn’t stop him now. Sherlock tamped down the wave of longing that overcame him whenever he thought about John. He ran downstairs, ignoring the fact that he was strictly told not to run, and barged into 221A. 

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“You’re not supposed to run, dear,” she said disapprovingly. 

“Never mind that. There’s been a murder.” 

She smiled at him. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s always dangerous.” 

She took a deep breath. “You shouldn’t go.” 

“Why?” He scowled, affronted.

“Your ribs, dear. You’re not supposed to do anything other than relax.”

“Oh, relaxing, relaxing’s boring,” Sherlock said. “Besides, I’m feeling better now.” He spun around to head back upstairs. 

“You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow,” she called after him.

He stopped in his tracks. He didn’t need to go to that. He knew he was doing better. _John would have forced you to._ “John would have monitored me himself,” he growled, and continued up the stairs, albeit at a slightly slower pace. His heart pounded quickly in his chest, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from excitement or the cocaine in his veins. He sat back down at his laptop to read the rest of the cases. 

**I think my husband’s cheating on me,** said one, but due to the details in the email Sherlock was able to deduce that he was actually attending chemotherapy and hiding it extraordinarily well by staying overnight at his brother’s house-and the sender was actually the one who was cheating. **No. He’s undergoing chemotherapy and for some reason doesn’t want to tell you-probably because you’re the one actually cheating. Stop trying to blame your mistakes on him.** He spent the rest of the day solving cases right in his sitting room. The most interesting one only took him an hour to solve. Altogether it was mindless work, but he was happy to be back solving cases. He was so immersed in his work that he didn’t notice the time slipping by until it was dark out. He didn’t eat, didn’t move from the chair. He didn’t notice when he started to come down until one of the cases sent him completely over the edge. He was usually vulnerable after the cocaine wore away, but this time seemed worse than usual. The case itself was simple, aside from the astonishingly poor writing style. It was an easy case to solve, one that should only have taken him five minutes, but he couldn’t do it. Words jumped out at him from the email. _Ex soldier...disappeared...no idea where...ptsd...could be suicide._ Sherlock’s blood ran cold and his fingers shook over the keyboard. He could solve the case, he knew he could, but it halted him. He stared at the screen, seeing but not seeing. He saw John, limping through the dark London night with his cane. John had been suicidal. Sherlock knew that. There was a high likelihood that John would have taken his own life, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that John might do that now. 

He didn’t leave his seat for a few hours until he dragged himself to bed and collapsed, well after midnight. Most of the excitement about the following day had drained, leaving him to curl up under his covers and try to sleep. 

Morning came, light burning into his eyes as he blinked himself awake. His head felt stuffed of sawdust. He took a shaky breath. His breathing wasn’t fully back to normal, but he was recovering. It was probably best not to go chasing criminals around London, but in his state of mind, he wanted nothing more. 

He rolled over and checked the small clock on his nightstand. _6:54._ The funeral didn’t start until nine, but he got out of bed anyways. He stumbled to his wardrobe, pulled out a black shirt. _People wore black to mourn, right?_ He shook his head once, briefly, trying to shake the feeling that John would be able to instruct him on proper funeral etiquette. 

*****

The small church was dim, lit by candles. The light coming in through the stained-glass windows by the eaves did nothing to cut through the gloom. The church was musty. Sherlock swiped a careful finger over the small table in the foyer. His finger came away covered in dust and he blew it off. The doors to the main room were open. He stepped in quietly. It was mostly empty, and everyone who was there was near the front. Olivia MacDonald was standing near the altar. He slipped inside and walked slowly up the aisle. He was here to be respectful, which meant sitting with other people. Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt that he had injected before he’d arrived, but it was quickly overshadowed by pity for Olivia. Pity. Since when did he feel _pity?_

Sherlock took a seat in the pew behind the others. Wiggins sat down next to him. He had been unusually silent, and Sherlock had nearly forgotten he was there. In front of him were the sounds of muffled crying. Grandparents. And an uncle. He shrugged off his coat, laying it on the bench next to him. He folded his hands in his lap, suddenly wishing that he had picked up a schedule from the foyer. The coffin-no, casket, more rectangular-in the front of the room was a polished light wood. Sherlock presumed it was handsome, though he wasn’t certain. 

After about ten minutes, the doors to the church closed and Olivia stepped up to the altar. “There are no words for this tragedy,” she said, sounding exhausted. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “Dylan was my son. I don’t know how-how I’m going to be able to move on without him. I don’t think I can, he’s-I, I’m sorry, it’s just-” she took a breath, composed herself. “Life happens. It does, and we have to move on, but it’s just so difficult. He was-everything I had.” She continued talking, but a loud buzzing filled Sherlock’s ears. He was reminded, suddenly, of John’s blog post after his death. He had written some bullshit about _new beginnings,_ and Sherlock hated it. He hated that post. Hated it so much. 

His own funeral had been...fine. He had attended, of course, slipped in the back and stood in the shadows. Mycroft had recommended against it, but he assured Mycroft he would be careful. And he had been.

_His casket was a polished, dark wood. Walnut. It absorbed all the light, drew it in, swallowed it. Mycroft had paid for it. John couldn’t have afforded it. Sherlock asked to be able to pick it out. He had thought, before, that it would be fun. It wasn’t, and so he told Mycroft to let John pick it. John would do a better job than he would._

_The funeral itself was barely attended. Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade. Some others sat in the pews. His homeless network, probably. He didn’t really notice. His eyes were fixed on John._

_He looked terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. His lips were pressed firmly together. Sherlock knew that look. He was trying to hold himself together. He was trying not to break during the funeral, when he was around others. John sat alone and studiously ignored everyone who came near, even Mycroft and Lestrade. Mycroft, Sherlock noted, was doing a very good job of pretending Sherlock was dead. He had always been a decent actor._

_Mycroft agreed that Sherlock could have a week in London before he had to leave. Just one week. He spent the majority of the week holed up in Mycroft’s mansion. Mycroft had been off doing God-knows-what, leaving Sherlock to stare at walls and remember John._

_Sherlock pulled his coat collar up even higher when John stood up. John couldn’t see him, not when he was standing alone in the shadows. John cleared his throat. “There’s not much to say,” he said. His face was drawn tightly. Even from the distance, Sherlock saw the pain in his eyes. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him. He did that, he put that expression on John’s face. John’s voice was quiet but firm, carrying up into the high arches of the ceiling. “He was-my best friend. He’d hate me for saying that.” John gave a pained smile. “But it’s true. He was. I know I should move on. He’s dead. But he saved my life, Sherlock did. I owe him so much. And so, Sherlock, you were my best friend and I’ll always believe in you.” John went on to talk, but a roaring filled Sherlock’s ears. He couldn’t breathe, suddenly, and stumbled from the room out into the cool April air. Daffodils and lily of the valley bloomed in the flower garden, and Sherlock thought he would be sick from the pungent smell. He wanted nothing more than to run back inside. Throw his arms around John, hold him close. Tell him that he was still here, he was still alive, that there was no need for John to be sad anymore. But he couldn’t do that, and so Sherlock decided that he would leave London immediately._

A firm hand on his arm brought him back to the present. Wiggins was leaning over him, whispering something. “What?” Sherlock snapped. 

“I said, what’s going on? Even high you’re not usually this spacey.” 

“Shut up. I was thinking.” Wiggins nodded. “Why did you interrupt me?

“All the speeches are over. You can go inspect the body now.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock stood up abruptly, making his way to the open casket. The line was small, and so he stood behind it. Olivia was near the front, clutching the wood. He waited patiently, thinking about evidence. He could solve this murder. He knew he could. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” Olivia gazed at him in astonishment when he reached the casket. 

“Hello,” he said. “I came to pay my respects.” 

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Sherlock leaned over the body, not touching, just looking. Dylan’s hair was brushed neatly over his forehead. His eyes were cold. His face was pale. Sherlock slipped on his leather gloves, ignoring Olivia’s questioning glare. He brushed a gentle hand across Dylan’s forehead. The skin was cold to the touch. The faintest hint of concealer came off on his fingertips. Sherlock examined it. It was covering up a faint bruise. Sherlock sniffed the body. The scent of formaldehyde wafted back at him, covering up any other traces. He slipped a hand underneath Dylan, in an attempt to find other signs of the murderer. Wiggins peered curiously at the body from behind him.

Sherlock felt a strong hand on his back and was ripped away from the body. “Mr. Holmes, what are you doing?”

“Inspecting,” he replied. “Please take your hands off me.” 

Olivia complied. “Please leave. I don’t want to find the murderers. I didn’t invite you hear to investigate a murder.” 

“Why else would I be invited?” He frowned at her. 

“To thank you, I don’t know, I thought you might want to know.”

“Don’t you want justice for your son? He was brutally attacked.”

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t tell me how to grieve for my son.” 

Sherlock glared. “It was murder.”

“I know.” Her gaze was thunderous. “You’re being disrespectful. Please leave the funeral. I don’t want it marred by you.” 

Sherlock stooped down to her level and narrowed his eyes. “Fine.” 

He swooped out of the room, Wiggins at his heels.

*****

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock collapsed on the couch feeling worse than before. He scribbled down a measurement and then injected again. Now was not the time to be sober. 

“That went terribly,” Wiggins remarked. 

Sherlock entered his mind palace. The hallways were dark and gloomy, many of the rooms barred and locked. Including John’s. He briefly considered deleting John’s wing entirely, but couldn’t bear to erase him completely. Sentiment. Weakness. 

He was pulled back out of it sometime later by his phone buzzing. Lestrade. He sighed and accepted it. A case would be good, probably. If it was interesting. Otherwise, he was content to stay in the flat and let his brain tear itself apart. 

“Hello, Gerald,” Sherlock said. 

“Not even close.” Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock. I have a case for you.”

“I know.”

“Are you high?”

“No.” The lie slipped easily from his lips. 

“Okay. Well. St. Caedwalla’s hospital. There’s been a murder.”

“Has there?”

“Yes. One of the doctors. Dr. Miller.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “I’ll take a cab.” He disconnected the call and told Wiggins he was leaving, yelling to Mrs. Hudson. He hailed a cab and climbed in. He checked in the mirror to make sure his eyes weren’t too terribly dilated-Lestrade couldn’t know how high he was right then. 

He met Lestrade in front of the hospital. Donovan and Anderson were with him. “Hey, freak,” Donovan called to him as he entered the hospital. He flipped her off. 

“Sherlock!” 

“What?” 

“You can’t just do that,” Lestrade protested. Sherlock ignored him and entered the hospital. “Go to the morgue! The body’s in there!” Sherlock followed the signs. The morgue was in the basement. The lights flickered once, casting an eerie feeling over the hallway. Sherlock’s ribs twinged as he pushed open the doorway. A man was sitting inside. 

“Culverton Smith,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand. His teeth were crooked. His eyes glinted maniacally. “I own the place. Like it?” When Sherlock didn’t take his hand, he gestured around the place. “This room’s my favourite.”

His tone set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. A chill ran up his spine. He raised an eyebrow. “The morgue. Your favourite?”

“It’s quiet. I can tell people secrets, you see. And they won’t judge me.” 

“I came to investigate a murder,” Sherlock said stiffly. “I would like to do that.”

“No matter.” Smith grinned. “There’s no need. Everything’s just fine.” 

Sherlock decided that he didn’t much care for Smith. Everything about the man radiated distrustfulness. His tone was off. His wording was off. Letters swirled around his head, but Sherlock wasn’t able to piece them together quite yet. “Is it? Someone’s been murdered in your hospital. Surely you’re concerned.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Mr. Holmes, I said it’s fine.” His smile widened, displaying more of his rotten teeth. 

“I disagree,” Sherlock said. His senses were on high alert. 

“It’s not your hospital.”

“Then why am I here?”

Smith got closer to his face until their noses were almost brushing. “I don’t like you very much.”

“Not many people do,” Sherlock replied warily. 

“You see, I can’t have a detective wandering around my hospital. It’s bad for business.” 

“What is your business?”

“I’m an advertiser,” Smith said. “Children’s cereal. Maybe you’ve seen it. Cereal killer? Get it?”

“Clever,” Sherlock said. “I can see how you would be fond of that.” Too late, he realised who he was. A children’s advertiser, yes, and the owner of a hospital. He was completely in control here. Sherlock was powerless. He knew Smith. He had been keeping tabs on him ever since he had first seen him. There was something off about him. Something not quite right. He blamed the cocaine for not realising it sooner, and cursed himself. He was off his game. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he said, and closed his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock’s skin prickled and he twisted, but Smith didn’t let go. 

“Yes, you do.” Sherlock scanned the room, looking for something to defend himself. “Do you know Jimmy Savile? He died a few years back. Raised money for charity.”

“I look up to him,” Smith said, and Sherlock lunged. 

“He was an alleged sex offender,” Sherlock growled, reaching for the scalpel. “And you are the vilest-the most repulsive-” his hand shook. “The most repulsive human scum I have ever met.” The letters coalesced around him to form the words _serial killer_ and everything slipped into place. The morgue. The perfect place to hide bodies. He owned the hospital. It would be so easy for him to pretend someone had died and hide the bodies. He had built up an image, had become trusted by so many people. 

“Am I? Lovely.” Smith disarmed him, pinning him to the table. Sherlock cried out in pain, his ribs re-breaking. Smith slammed his head down onto the table. Sherlock screamed. “I love seeing the kids,” Smith whispered in his ear. “It’s really very enjoyable. They get scared, see? They’ll listen as I tell them things. And then I can make them hurt. I can make them scream, I can make them regret ever talking to me. And then I can put them out of their misery.” 

Repulsion filled Sherlock. “Get your hands off me.” 

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, I can’t do that.” His voice was smooth in Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock vomited onto the table. The substance filled his mouth and he spat, once, to get rid of it. He was in agony. Every atom in his body burned. 

“You are a terrible person,” Sherlock hissed. 

Smith put a hand around Sherlock’s throat. He wasn’t squeezing, not yet, but holding it in a show of dominance. “Say it. Say you don’t want to die.” Sherlock didn’t comply. His mind whirled, trying to get out of the predicament. He wished for John. “Say it.” His voice lowered, his hand tightening a little.

“I don’t want to die,” Sherlock choked out. “I don’t want to die.” It was a lie. He wanted to die. He wanted to let go. He didn’t want to be around this man, not ever. He didn’t want to hear about all the pain Smith had inflicted, didn’t want to think about all the lives he’d taken. He didn’t want to think about John, how John would not hesitate to kill Smith. 

“Lovely.” Smith drove a knee into the small of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock groaned. Smith’s other hand covered his mouth. “No one’s going to blame me. The strung-out detective passed out in the morgue. A tragedy. Overdose, maybe.” The hands tightened and Sherlock couldn’t breathe. His lungs weren’t receiving air. He trembled underneath Smith, and then, with a surge of adrenaline, managed to break free. He gasped for air and lunged back at Smith, trying to wrestle him into a headlock. Blood dripped down his face and he blinked it out of his eyes. Smith hit him in the ribs, and he doubled over. He coughed. Blood spattered on Smith’s shoes. Shit. He’d reinjured his internal organs. Smith pushed him to the floor.

The morgue doors swung open. A nurse pushed in and stopped at the scene. “He attacked me,” Smith said. His voice had changed. It was scared now, uncertain, and Sherlock had never hated anyone more. “I think he’s high.” 

Sherlock screamed from the floor. His body trembled and bled. He thrashed around, writhing in pain. Through dimmed sight, Sherlock made out the nurse rolling a body off of a gurney. Smith lifted him onto it, and the nurse wheeled him to the elevator. Smith promised him that he’d get him a nice room, and waved. Sherlock tried to say something, tried to talk to the nurse and tell him Smith was bad, but all that came out was muffled groans. 

“Don’t try to talk,” the nurse scolded. 

The elevator stopped and Sherlock was rolled into another hallway lined with closed doors. Sherlock’s brain slowed. He was supposed to be doing something. He was supposed to tell someone, something, it was important. Maybe tell John? Yes, John could save him. He tried to call for John. 

He was transferred onto a bed and hooked up to a monitor. No. No! He had to get out of there. He had to warn someone. He tore off the monitor and sat up, ignoring the pain. He lashed out with his fists, making contact with someone. Garbled sounds rose from his throat. Voices called out around him. And then a needle was in his arm and he was sinking, down, down, down, into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Boulevard of Broken Dreams_ \- Green Day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Soa3gO7tL-c&ab_channel=GreenDay)
> 
> Word count: 4, 936
> 
> Happy New Year everybody. This chapter was up late and I doubt the next one will be up as late. Hopefully. According to Wikipedia, Culverton Smith (BBC not ACD) was inspired by Jimmy Savile, a TV host who was an alleged child sex abuser. I hope I did the BBC character justice. He's probably my least favourite Sherlock villain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild violence/gore in this chapter. Also, I’m not a doctor. I did my best but there may be factual inaccuracies.

_Everything must go away_

_Oh, what do you say?_

_Yeah, you don’t know my mind_

_You don’t know my kind_

_Dark necessities are part of my design_

_Tell the world that I’m_

_Falling from the sky_

_Dark necessities are part of my design_

Sherlock came back groggily, blinking awake. His head and mouth were stuffed with cotton, his eyes sandpapery and dry. He shivered slightly under the cold, hospital-assigned blankets. It took him a full ten minutes to regain control of his mental facilities. An IV was inserted in his left hand, dripping something into him. Morphine, probably. He wasn’t in too much pain, mostly comfortable, but he was sore and still tired.

And then he remembered.

He frantically tried to wiggle out of bed, to go get help, but he was too weak and ended up falling to the ground. His IV pulled at his hand. His electrodes tangled and tugged at his skin. His throat was dry and scratchy. A nurse came rushing in. 

“Mr. Holmes!” He cried with alarm. “Get back into bed.” He hauled an unwilling Sherlock back into the bed. 

“Smith-he did this-” Sherlock rasped. It hurt to talk. “His fault-not good-”

“You’ve been through a great ordeal,” the nurse said kindly. “Back to bed, now.” 

“No.” Sherlock sat upright. “I can’t, sorry.” He struggled to sit up, but the nurse held him down by the shoulder. Sherlock pressed his palm against his head. _Think. There was something important. Very important._ “Smith, he, he…” Sherlock swallowed. He gestured to his face. “He did this. Well. Part of it.” He touched his stitches and realised that Smith had reopened the injury. 

“He claimed you attacked him,” the nurse said firmly. 

“I didn’t,” Sherlock begged. “Please. You must believe me.” The nurse shrugged and pulled the blankets up over Sherlock’s knees. 

“You were on drugs,” he said, softly. “That’s bound to mess with your memories.” He left the room. Sherlock stared at the wall. 

*****

The door to the hallway opened, light shining into Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked. The dark outline of a figure stood in the doorway. Sherlock raised himself into a seated position. 

The figure chuckled. “So we meet again, Mr. Holmes.” Icy fear ran through Sherlock’s veins. He subconsciously brought his hands to his neck. “Is it a comfortable bed? I tried to get the best for my patients.” 

Sherlock scowled at him. “Stop it.”

The figure came into view, Smith’s crooked teeth smirking at him. “Stop what?”

“That. Whatever you’re doing.” He waved his hand around weakly. “Trying to get to me. You win. It’s over.” Sherlock winced. 

“Oh, no, no,” Smith said, smiling widely. “Not yet.” He sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, and it dipped under his weight. Sherlock clenched his fists into the sheets, grimacing at the sudden movement. “You see, I can’t have you knowing my secret.”

“You confessed.”

“Yes, I did.” Smith chuckled. “I like to confess.”

Sherlock widened his eyes, a thought coming to him. “That’s why you like the morgue. You can talk to the bodies.” 

Smith’s eyes gleamed. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. Very good.” Sherlock coughed, bile rising in his stomach. Smith was the worst person he had ever met. 

“You’re worse than Moriarty.” 

Smith hummed noncommittally. “That’s a compliment.” 

“It shouldn’t be.”

Smith seemed completely at ease. Sherlock’s teeth were on edge. He wanted Smith to leave. His throat still felt constricted. His hand twitched. He’d start going through withdrawal within a few hours, probably. Depending on how long he was sedated. Smith set his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock squirmed. Smith’s fingers tightened. “You’re beautiful, you know. So young. It’s such a shame you’ll have to die.”

“I don’t have to,” Sherlock said, but knew that wasn’t true. Even if Smith didn’t kill him now, his body was deteriorating. The drugs were killing him slowly, and the most terrifying part of it all was that he simply didn’t care. He didn’t see a point in caring, in living.

“Yes, you do,” Smith said. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“Hear me say what?”

“That you don’t want to die. It’s lovely when people say it. Quite exhilarating.”

Sherlock scowled. “No.” 

“Say it.” 

“No.”

“Mr. Holmes.” The eerie smile was back, and rancid breath ghosted across Sherlock’s face. He shuddered, sighed, took a breath. 

“I don’t want to die,” he choked out. Memories of the case with the cabbie flashed through his mind, briefly, suddenly. How John was there to save him. John wouldn’t save him now, not this time.

“Again.”

“I don’t want to die.” But he did. He did want to die, he wanted the pain to be over. He hated how dependent he was on John, hated that he was feeling like this simply because of John. He swallowed. 

“Once more.”

“I don’t want to die.” His voice was pitiful, even to him. Smith placed a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes widened. He thought Smith would kill him with a gun, but suffocation was so much worse. He held his breath, calmed himself. It was an exercise. A breathing exercise. Smith’s hand tightened over his mouth and nose, and Sherlock stiffened. His breath was becoming short, his chest tightening. His lungs burned for air. He began to thrash, weakly, but Smith was stronger and able to hold him down. He started to panic. His head felt light, unfocused. 

Smith’s hands left his mouth abruptly and Sherlock gasped for breath. “Sherlock!” Someone called to him, loudly, concerned. He blinked spots out of his eyes and looked towards the door. Mycroft was standing there, Lestrade just behind him. Lestrade’s gun was drawn, pointing at Smith. Smith’s hands were above his head, his back turned towards Sherlock. 

Mycroft walked swiftly to Sherlock’s side. “Are you all right?” Sherlock scanned his face. It was the first time he had ever seen something resembling fear in his eyes. 

“I’m fine.” 

Mycroft studied him warily.

*****

Two days later, Mycroft and Lestrade came back to visit him. The hospital was dull, incredibly dull, and even the telly didn’t distract him. He was also suffering from extreme withdrawal, and as a result, barely slept or ate. He was withering away, and only wished it would happen faster.

“You look terrible,” Lestrade said, grimly. 

“Thank you.”

Mycroft’s eyes bore into him. “I know what this is.”

“What what is?” Sherlock feigned ignorance.

“You went back on drugs.”

“No,” Sherlock said, but his body betrayed him by twitching violently. Lestrade cleared his throat and sat down on a chair beside him. Mycroft remained standing.

“You’ll be happy to know that Smith confessed.”

“The frailty of genius,” Sherlock told him. “It demands an audience.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You must go to rehabilitation.”

“Must I?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not in charge of me,” Sherlock said disdainfully.

“No. But I am your brother. And as such, I will have you transferred tomorrow. I sense your injuries are healing nicely?” Sherlock remained silent. His injuries were, in fact, healing quite well. His ribs had re-broken after the fight with Smith, and the stitches above his eyebrow popped, but they were beginning to feel better. His bruises had mostly healed. “Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. “I am only doing this because I care about you.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his hands. “I’m aware.” 

“Please. For me.” Mycroft never said please, so Sherlock opened his eyes. Mycroft allowed a sliver of emotion to cross his normally cool demeanor. Pain. Sherlock saw raw pain. Guilt flared low in his stomach, an emotion he was becoming more and more used to feeling. An emotion he hated feeling. 

“Fine.” His body twitched violently again, and he wondered if he’d be able to survive the withdrawals. Maybe Wiggins could bring him something, just to take the edge off.

*****

The rehabilitation center was all white walls and corridors, an uncomfortable chill to the air. Sherlock crossed his arms, drawing his coat closer around him. Soon he’d be forced to take it off, to change into the standardised uniform of the facility, but for now he maintained a layer of protection. Mycroft stood slightly behind him. Sherlock vomited twice on the way there, and was now shivering. 

Mycroft stepped up to the reception desk. Sherlock blocked out all sounds, all movement, and entered his mind palace. He tried to find some solace in it, but the windows were closed, most of the rooms locked, the lights off. It was dark and foreboding. 

He was dragged out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. Mycroft. “What do you want?” Sherlock’s voice was low and harsh. His throat burned from the vomit. 

“It’s time for you to go.” 

Sherlock didn’t say goodbye, didn’t say anything as he was ushered through yet another stark-white corridor. He blinked in the bright lights. He was led to a small room with a doctor, forced to strip and be examined. His clothes were taken away. _For safekeeping,_ he was told. He was given white sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He slipped them on, his feet cold against the tile floor. 

He was taken to doctor after doctor. They poked, prodded, examined him. He did not talk to them.

His bedroom was dismal. The small twin-sized bed jutted out from the wall. A desk was placed underneath a window. The only view was of a small alley and the building across. He was up several stories, at least five, and jumping from the window would actually kill him. He sat down on the bed. It was firm and uncomfortable, vastly different from his own back at Baker Street. He scowled at the floor and tried not to think of his mind and body begging him for relief. He wasn’t allowed to close his door.

Some time later, a nurse walked in. “Mr. Holmes.” 

Sherlock glanced up. Even that took effort. He was in pain, his whole body feeling like it was burning up. “Hello.”

“You know why you’re here, I presume?”

“Actually, I don’t.” He frowned at her. His mouth was dry. “A glass of water would be nice.”

She ignored his request and pulled out a piece of paper. “It says here you have an addiction to cocaine.”

“I’m not an addict,” he growled. “I’m a user. I’m perfectly capable of quitting whenever I’d like.” 

She smiled sympathetically. “I don’t think so, Mr. Holmes. Don’t worry, though. We’ll get you fixed up in no time. Now, would you like a shower?”

A shower actually sounded quite lovely, so Sherlock stood up. His hair fell greasily into his eyes, and a twinging in his ribs reminded him that they were very much not healed yet. 

The showers were at the end of the hallway, divided into small cubicles. Running water told Sherlock that he wasn’t alone. He sighed. Showering would be difficult with his injuries, and the last thing he wanted was to be in the company of another person. The nurse handed him a bar of soap, and told him to call for someone if he wanted to shave. He didn’t care enough to do that. 

He sat down on a bench in one of the cubicles, waiting. To his great relief, the water shortly stopped. Footsteps padded to the sink and then left the room. Sherlock groaned and stood up. He stripped off his t-shirt, wincing. His bandages were dark and dirty around the edges, so he took those off as well. He ran a hand over his ribs. A shot of pain flared through him. He removed his hand and figured he’d need to ask someone for replacement bandages. 

The water was lukewarm and high-pressured, beating down on his sore body. His stomach clenched and he thought, _not again,_ before turning and vomiting into the drain. His feet and ankles got splashed, and he sighed. He retched a few more times until nothing more came out, and then washed the vomit down the drain. Sherlock didn’t have the energy to clean himself, so he stood under the spray and let the water wash away the grime. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall and missed John terribly. 

Back in his room, Sherlock sat down at the small desk. His bandages were replaced. Someone, somehow, had managed to procure new ones for him. A piece of paper and a crayon had been placed on the desk. He stared at them for a while, trying to erase the cravings. It wasn’t working. He needed cocaine, needed it like he needed to breathe. It was all he could do to stare at the paper and not _think._

Another nurse came in some time later, holding a cup of water. “Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock spun around in the chair. He knew he looked terrible. His face was probably drawn and pale, his eyes bloodshot. “Yes?”

“It’s time for group.”

“I’m not going to group.”

“It’s part of the daily schedule.”

“I don’t care, I’m not going.” He turned back to the window. She crossed the room and set the cup down next to him. He curled his fingers around it. The ice was cool and soothing in his palm. She spun his chair around so he was facing her, and gripped his chin to make eye contact. He flinched. His jaw hurt slightly. She released her grip, but put a hand on his shoulder. 

“I can give you a pass for today, to get settled. But tomorrow you must go.”

“Fine.” Sherlock was planning on signing himself out in the morning, anyways, so it wasn’t really a big deal. The nurse left the room. 

That night was one of the longest Sherlock had ever gone through. The sunset through the window was pretty enough, but the building across the alley obscured most of it. He didn’t eat the food he was provided with, but he did drink another cup of water. He got ready for bed quickly, ignoring the stares from the others in the bathroom. His bed was hard and uncomfortable, the blankets too thin. He tossed and turned. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop thinking. He wanted John, he wanted cocaine. He couldn’t figure out which one he wanted more. His body ached and screamed at him. John didn’t even know where he was. John wouldn’t care where he was. Sherlock briefly considered deleting John entirely, but couldn’t bear the thought of it. He laid in bed until the sun came up. His eyelids were scratchy, his body tired. 

Sherlock dragged himself out of bed when the room grew lighter, back to the chair by the window. He would leave as soon as he could. He would sign himself out, go back to Baker Street, and finally feel the relief of cocaine. Wiggins would surely still be there. He knew Wiggins, and Wiggins wouldn’t leave a place unless he deemed it truly unsafe or uncomfortable. 

A bird flew into the window of the building across from him, and he watched it hit the glass and spiral down into the alley. Five stories down it fell. It wouldn’t survive the fall. When Sherlock found it late enough, he crept out to the office, careful not to wake the other inhabitants.

“I would like to sign myself out, please,” he said. Politeness was something he rarely bothered with, but if it would help him get out of here faster, he would be polite.

“You’ve only been here a day.” The receptionist looked at him through tired, bleary eyes. 

“I was not put here by law, I checked in myself. I can sign myself out.” 

The man sighed and bent down to rustle through a drawer. “Sign this, please.” Sherlock took the proffered pen and paper and scribbled his name on the line. He didn’t bother to read the paper. “I’ll get your clothing.”

He returned a minute later with a bag containing Sherlock’s shirt, trousers, and his mobile. Sherlock’s coat was slung over his arm. Sherlock took the bag and slipped the coat on, relishing its familiarity. 

“Okay, you’re free to go.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, stiffly. “Oh, and if my brother asks where I am-Mycroft Holmes-please do not tell him. You have patient confidentiality, do you not?”

“We do,” the man said.

“Good.” Sherlock slipped out through the front door and breathed in the air. His veins tingled at the thought of shooting up again. It had been so long, too long. He hailed the nearest cab he could, and made his way back to Baker Street. 

*****

Wiggins was flung over the couch when Sherlock returned, strung-out and glassy-eyed. “Did you save any for me?”

“Where have you been?” Wiggin’s eyes moved over Sherlock, taking in his rehab clothing.

“Nowhere.”

“Why do you look like you were in rehabilitation?”

Sherlock dropped the bag of clothes and in a huff, moved towards the kitchen. “Did you save any for me?”

“On the table.” 

Excitement thrumming through his veins, he picked up the needle from the table. He missed this. God, he missed this. With shaking fingers, Sherlock plunged the needle in. He thought he could _feel_ the cocaine travelling through his body, endorphins releasing in his brain. He stopped being tired, suddenly, adrenaline coursing through him. In his bedroom, he replaced the rehabilitation clothes with a dressing gown over his usual dress shirt and trousers. 

“I need a case!” He stormed into the sitting room. Wiggins peered up at him in a haze. “Have I had any clients?” Wiggins shook his head. Sherlock opened his laptop and scrolled through his emails until he found a murder case. “Brilliant,” he mused, grinning at the email. “Would you like to be my assistant?” The case was far enough away that Lestrade, nor any of his associates at New Scotland Yard, would be there. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Sherlock snapped. “If you do, get up. We’re leaving now.” He took note of the address at the end of the email, committing it to memory. He pulled on his coat and was about to exit the flat, but turned back to the kitchen and put more of the drug in his pocket. He didn’t know when he’d be back at Baker Street, and coming down from the high was simply unacceptable.

“Wait, I’m coming.” Wiggins stumbled down the stairs, and Sherlock reflected that he was in no state to join. But Sherlock himself was in no state to go solve a murder, so he supposed it was okay. 

A thought struck him when he was sitting in the cab. He didn’t make a list. Didn’t write down what he had taken, and now he couldn’t remember. Fear gripped his heart. _He couldn’t remember._ Sherlock always remembered, everything, but he hadn’t even checked what exactly he had been injecting. The cab ride was boring. He stared out the window and deduced the passersby. His brain was moving faster than usual, yet he couldn’t seem to make sense of his deductions. A headache was starting to form. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat.

The cab slowed to a stop after a while and the pair leapt out, Wiggins nearly falling over. Sherlock landed with his usual grace, fluidly moving to the other side of the cab and catching Wiggins before he could hit the pavement. The crime scene was partitioned off with tape, and Sherlock strolled forward. The officer in charge stopped him and looked at him warily. “This is a crime scene.”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, and slipped under the tape. “I was told to come by one of your officers. Would you like to see the email?”  
“You can’t just-”

“Surely you know who I am?” Sherlock glared at him. He rearranged his expression to look frightening, menacing, and thrusted his phone towards the officer. The officer gulped and signalled for him to go in.

Sherlock stepped into the small alley, Wiggins behind him. The ground was spattered with blood, in places, and the body had not yet been touched. Sherlock knelt to the ground and pulled out his magnifying glass. He swiped at the blood with his finger. It was dry, of course it was, but he held it up and examined it. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

He crawled over to the body. It was a young man, late twenties. Stubble dotted his face. The man’s chest was bloody. His clothes had a hole in them. Sherlock slipped on his gloves. He rubbed the soaked fabric between his fingers. The blood crumbled at his fingertips. He gently tore the fabric away from his skin, and looked at the wound. The flesh around it was swollen and red. The blood had dried further away from the wound, but the blood inside was dripping and wet. Sherlock probed it with a finger, and then sat back. He examined the man. 

He was wearing an Arsenal sweatshirt and jeans. His eyes were open-didn’t see his attacker-and his hands were tucked under him, probably to break his fall. It was a kill shot. A bullet. The wound was the right size and shape, and Sherlock had seen enough gun wounds to recognise one. The angle that the bullet must have entered his body meant that whoever shot him was standing above. Sherlock looked up and scanned the rooftops, analysing the angles. He pinpointed it to several locations, depending on the angle of the man’s fall. The building on the right was decrepit, locked and falling down. Balance of probability suggested that the killer would choose an abandoned building, so Sherlock kicked in the window.

“What are you _doing_?” Wiggins scrambled in after him. Sherlock turned to him in surprise. 

“I forgot you were here.” Sherlock raced up the first stairs he could see, bursting out onto the rooftop. Sunlight glinted off the windows nearby and he squinted. His stomach twisted and then dropped. He recognised the feeling, recognised the first signs of withdrawal. He turned away from the body on the ground and pulled the syringe out of his pocket. 

“Are you insane? There are police directly below us.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, and pushed the plunger down. That was better. Now he didn’t have to worry about running out while he was investigating. He tossed the empty syringe off the roof, opposite the alley, and heard it falling down. 

Sherlock resumed his examination of angles. He closed his eyes and saw the man standing up, back to the position he had been in before he was shot. He walked to the edge of the rooftop and glanced over the edge. The rooftop of the building adjacent had a better hiding place. A door stood upright on it, cracked open. Perfect.

Sherlock sprinted to the edge and leapt over, not caring if he fell or not. He flashed back to the first night with John. _Running, running, John stopping, scared, “come on, John, come on-”_

Sherlock’s legs buckled as he hit the ground. He rolled, coming to a stop directly in front of the door. It was open slightly. The lock on the door was bent. Someone had tried to close it, in a hurry, but couldn’t. The killer? Sherlock pressed his back to the door. The angle worked. It fit with the angle of the bullet in the man’s chest.

“John, I did it, I solved it…” he trailed off when he remembered John was no longer there. His heart throbbed and he bit his lip. After a moment of composure, he spun back to tell Wiggins and find the officers. 

A man was running towards him, leaping over the gap and coming closer. Sherlock put his hands up and braced for impact. He didn’t know who it was. _Killer. Adversary. Moriarty (no, dead). Lestrade. John. Killer. Killer._ His eyes flew open and he met the man head on. He was yelling, but his ears were filled with blood roaring and what did it matter what was shouted? Using the man’s momentum, he flipped him over and pinned him down, one hand on his chest, the other raised above his face. 

“Stop that!” Wiggins’s terrified voice cut through the white noise in his mind. A fog cleared from his eyes. Sherlock looked down to the face of a police officer. He climbed off him carefully. 

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“He’s drunk,” said Wiggins from behind him. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but then realised that assault of an officer while drunk would allow for lesser charges than assault of an officer while on cocaine. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, not feeling particularly sorry. “I thought you were someone else.” His head spun. Everything slowed down. It was possible that he had taken too much of whatever substance Wiggins had prepared. 

“You’ll need to come in for a fine.” Sherlock nodded. The police officer continued talking, but the white noise was back. It filled his ears, and started to cloud his vision. He was pulled off the police officer, his limbs limp and weak. 

“He needs to go home,” Wiggins said.

“Where do you live?”

“Baker Street.” _221B,_ Sherlock tried to add silently, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

“London?” Wiggins must have confirmed this, because the officer said, “I’ll call NSY and have them send someone to meet us there.”

Sherlock tried to protest, he tried to say something, but all that came out was a muffled groan. He had the vague sensation of being carried down the stairs and shoved into a car. His vision blackened and he was falling, deeper, wondering if John would come to save him.

*****

Sherlock was stirred awake by a firm hand on his shoulder. His stomach clenched before he realized what was happening, and he rolled over and vomited. Only he hadn’t eaten anything in awhile, and nothing came out.

“Mr. Holmes?” Wiggins’ voice forced him out of his stupor and he blinked. “You all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock said, his voice burning from the vomit. 

Wiggins kept his voice low. “They’re coming soon. I’m sorry. I had to call them.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade-the officer called him-and Mycroft. Oh, and Molly and John. They might get Mrs. Hudson, I don’t know.”

Sherlock groaned but couldn’t muster the energy to do anything else. _Not John. Anyone but John._ He wanted to see John, but not like this. Never like this. “John won’t be here.”

“I had Mycroft ensure it.” 

“I don’t give you enough credit,” Sherlock croaked. 

“Right, well.” Wiggins scratched the back of his throat. “I have to move out.” Sherlock hadn’t been expecting that. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. You’re tearing yourself apart, you’ve gone insane, you attacked an officer. I’m sorry.” Sherlock nodded, numb. With Wiggins gone, who else would he have? Certainly not John, and everyone else would be furious with him about the drugs. 

Wiggins dropped a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder. His face flickered in and out of focus. “Goodbye.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, Wiggins’s footsteps echoing down the stairs. He slipped back into unconsciousness. 

*****

“Sherlock.” 

He blinked into consciousness again, this time to the face of Mycroft staring down at him. He considered shutting his eyes again, to be petulant, but didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he shut his eyes because it hurt too much to keep them open.

“Sherlock, dear, wake up.”

He knew that voice. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft he didn’t care about, but he didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Hudson, so he opened his eyes again. Everything was very bright, even though a glance out the window showed it was dark. He squinted. Behind Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were Lestrade and Molly.

By the door, hands tucked in his pockets, looking very uncomfortable, was John. 

“John?” John didn’t move. 

“Oh, good, you’re alive,” Mycroft said, dryly. “You didn’t make a list.” He was disappointed. Sherlock glared at him. He raised himself into a seated position, head pounding. His ribs twinged and he pressed a hand to it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John following the path of his hand. _Yes,_ he thought, rather viciously. _You did this to me._ And then immediately felt guilty for thinking that, even though it was true. 

“What have you been doing?” It was Molly who spoke this time. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbled. “Caught a serial killer.”

“What?”

“Culverton Smith,” Lestrade said, grimly. “Although, really, I caught him.” Sherlock was too tired to argue.

“Please get out of my flat.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “We were informed you were back on drugs. And assaulted an officer.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean to. You can ask Wiggins. Where is Wiggins, anyways?” He glanced around before remembering Wiggins left him. 

“Wiggins?” Lestrade looked at him blankly. 

“His dealer,” Molly said angrily. “I’ve met him before.” Sherlock didn’t defend himself. He didn’t even bother to lie about being back on the drugs. 

“Your _dealer?”_

Sherlock closed his eyes again and folded his hands together. “Not my dealer. He was living with me. It was...an arrangement.”

“You gave him a place to live, and in return, he provided what you needed to get high?” Mycroft frowned at him. 

“Something like that.” Sherlock sighed. He had begun to like Wiggins, and that was rare. Wiggins was quiet and respectful and didn’t ask stupid questions. His chest twisted. 

“Where is he now?” 

“Not here,” Sherlock said, addressing Mycroft. “He left. Where did the other officer go?” He opened his eyes, not seeing the officer anywhere.

“He left,” Lestrade said. “Mycroft said he’d handle it.” Sherlock nodded, and then stopped when his head protested violently. 

“Why are you here, anyways?” Sherlock spoke to Mrs. Hudson, figuring she’d be the nicest, but it wasn’t her who answered it.

“An intervention,” John said slowly, moving away from the doorframe. It was the first thing he had said yet. His voice was quiet and sad, and Sherlock would have hugged him if he could. Wanted to hug him, but he didn’t think he could move from the couch. 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment too long. Mrs. Hudson peered at him curiously. “John,” he said, clearing his throat. “Then why are you here? Obviously,” he gestured to his ribs, “it wasn’t your choice.” The silence in the room was thick and awkward. Sherlock tamped down a strange surge of anger. He deserved what John did, he knew that. Then why did he feel angry about it?

John opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “I…”

And then Sherlock realised it. “You needed the money,” he said dully. “Mycroft offered to pay you again, didn’t he?” Mycroft raised a hand, but John interrupted him. 

“I have a daughter, Sherlock. I need to provide for her.” John’s voice was still quiet, still so unlike him. Sherlock wanted to shake him. He preferred the John who had beat him to this shell of himself. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sherlock. We’re here because you need to be kept off the drugs.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “We have decided that we will sit with you. Because evidently, you can’t be trusted on your own.”

 _You can’t be trusted on your own._ Well, that wasn’t true, was it? He did this because he chose to, not because he was addicted. His body chose a particularly bad time to give a rather unpleasant shake. 

“You almost overdosed a few hours ago,” Molly said. “You need to be watched. And since you apparently can sign yourself out of rehab-”

“Hold on,” John said. “He signed himself out of rehab?” Dull fury was sparkling in his eyes, but his tone didn’t change. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Hence why we need to sit with him. Sherlock, for the next while, one of us will always be with you. To keep an eye on you.”

“You can’t expect me to go cold turkey,” Sherlock protested feebly. 

“You have before,” John said. “You’ll be fine. You’re Sherlock Holmes, remember?” Normally, when John would say that, it was complimentary. But there was nothing but malice in his voice, now, and the words stung Sherlock more than he’d care to admit. “You can do anything, apparently. Cheat death.”

“That’s enough, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, and John fell silent. 

“Who has first rotation?” Sherlock asked. 

“I do,” Lestrade said. “I drew the short straw.” He gave a pained laugh, meant it as a joke, but it hurt. It hurt that nobody wanted to spend time with him, cut him straight to the core. Sherlock took a deep breath and sealed himself off. He didn’t need to seem vulnerable. Vulnerability was weakness. 

“Fine.”

“That’s it?” Molly looked at him in amazement. “No horrid protest?” Mycroft gave her a look, one that said _he’s really not doing well. Stop._

“Well,” Sherlock said. And then he leaned over the side of the couch as his stomach tried to empty itself on Mycroft’s shoes. Nothing came out, but Mycroft recoiled anyways. 

“We’ll leave you to it, then, Lestrade. Molly, seven tomorrow morning?”

“See you then, Sherlock,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. She gave a small wave. Sherlock coughed. They filed out of the sitting room. John was the first to leave. _Look how fast they’re leaving. They don’t want to be near you any longer than they have to. He doesn’t want to be near you any longer than he has to._ Sherlock heard muttering from the stairs. Lestrade dragged a chair over from the desk and sat down in it across from Sherlock. He said nothing, did nothing. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back across the couch. 

He wished, not for the first time, that he had overdosed and saved everyone the pain of being near him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Dark Necessities_ \- Red Hot Chili Peppers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJ_Tw0w3lLA)
> 
> Word count: 5,627
> 
> I know it's late, sorry. I don't know when I'll have the next chapter up. Hopefully soon, but...I may get busy. We'll see. Anyways, it'll be up as soon as possible. Also, John should actually be in the next chapter instead of a vague presence in Sherlock's mind.


	8. Chapter 8

__

_A heaven, a gateway_

_A hope_

_Just like a feeling inside_

_It’s no joke_

_And though it hurts me to treat you this way_

_Betrayed by words I’d never heard_

_Too hard to say_

_Up, down, turn around_

_Please don’t let me hit the ground_

_Tonight I think I’ll walk alone_

_I’ll find my soul as I go home_

Lestrade and Molly’s shifts were unbearably dull, or they would have been if not for the pain of withdrawal. Sherlock laid on the couch most of the time they were there, curled into a ball. He alternated between thinking about how bad the cravings were (very bad) and how John’s shift would go. He and John hadn’t been alone together in months. He was terrified. And looking forward to seeing him. But mostly terrified.

Mrs. Hudson’s shift was better than Molly’s and Lestrade’s, but he hated her pitying gaze as he was hunched over the toilet vomiting for what felt like the millionth time. He was shaky and sweaty. His hands gripped the rim of the toilet seat. His hair fell in his eyes. John would be coming soon. He’d be punctual, Sherlock knew, because he always was. When they were living together, John was always rushing Sherlock off to places so they wouldn’t be late. Sherlock would complain, but now he’d rush. Now he’d stop complaining, if it meant he’d see John. Or. See John in a _pleasant_ way, because having John there due to current circumstances was certainly less than ideal. 

Mrs. Hudson disappeared out of the bathroom as Sherlock wiped his mouth, still leaning over the toilet. His stomach wouldn’t stop churning, and what little food he was able to eat usually just came right back up again. His curls fell into his eyes, damp with sweat. His hands were gross from the toilet, so he didn’t try to wipe them away. The stench from the vomit filled his nostrils and he had to breathe through his mouth. He didn’t think he’d _ever_ stop throwing up. 

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock raised his head slowly, turning it to see John standing in the doorway. His arms were folded. Mrs. Hudson was just behind him.

“You’re early,” Sherlock said, and then his body gave a violent shake. 

“No, I’m not,” he said. 

“You’ve been here for a while, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said gently. 

“Oh.” Sherlock spat into the toilet, trying to clean the taste out of his mouth. “Apologies. I must have lost track of time.” He kept his voice a monotone. John didn’t need to know that he’d spent the past two days in a state of serious withdrawal. But then again, John was a doctor. He would know. 

When John didn’t say anything, Mrs. Hudson said, “I’ll be back later, Sherlock. Maybe with some tea?”

“Lovely,” Sherlock said, and then threw up again. His stomach settled a bit after that, but he stayed hunched over for a long moment just to be certain. When he deemed it safe, he stood up, flushed the toilet, and then looked at John.

“You might want to brush your teeth,” John said, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.

“Yes. Right.” Sherlock’s skin crawled uncomfortably. Being alone with John was strange. It was once something Sherlock craved, but now he just wanted to be alone. 

“I’ll meet you in the sitting room,” said John as he left the room. 

Sherlock brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face. John was sitting perched on a chair in the kitchen when Sherlock came out. His wedding ring glinted in the overhead light. His fist was clenched. 

“Your chair is upstairs,” Sherlock blurted out. 

“Okay,” John said slowly. 

“Would you like it?”

“I’m fine,” John said. 

“Okay.” Sherlock brushed past him. He had a sudden desire to play violin, but didn’t think it would be welcome. He gingerly settled himself into his chair and crossed his ankles. He was content to stare at John, to deduce how he’d been doing and all the little things he’d missed. 

“Sherlock,” John said, haltingly. 

“Yes?”

“I can’t-I mean, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I just-can’t.” John ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. 

“Can’t what?” Sherlock’s eyes widened and his heart beat a little faster. Typical symptoms of anxiety. His palms started to sweat. Fear, nervousness, or perhaps withdrawal. 

“I can’t,” John said finally, and Sherlock knew what he was trying to say. _I can’t pretend to forgive you. I’m only here because Mycroft’s paying me, I’m only here because Rosie needs me. I can’t pretend to be your friend because I can’t forgive you._

“I understand,” Sherlock said, and he did. 

“Not yet, at least,” John said quietly. Hope stirred in Sherlock’s chest. He didn’t respond for fear of scaring John off. That was the last thing either of them said until just before John left. 

Sherlock was bent back over the toilet, because apparently even though he hadn’t actually eaten anything his stomach was trying to destroy itself. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock hadn’t heard John stand up from the kitchen. He hadn’t even heard him come into the bathroom. “You’re a doctor, diagnose me,” Sherlock snapped, and then threw up again. 

“Withdrawal,” John said. “That’s pretty much it. You’ll be fine.”

“Reassuring,” Sherlock groaned. John watched him as he wiped his mouth and stood up shakily. 

“Right, well.” John lowered his eyes. “Mycroft should be here soon.” 

“How hateful,” Sherlock said, and tried for a weak smile. The corner of John’s mouth barely twitched. Sherlock followed John back into the sitting room and settled into his chair. John remained standing. 

The door to the flat opened and Mycroft stepped in, adjusting his tie stiffly. “Hello.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

At the same time, John said, “hi.”

“I have news, little brother,” said Mycroft. He sat down on the couch. “You’ve been cleared.”

“Cleared?”

“Yes, cleared,” Mycroft said. “You don’t have to pay a fine nor do you have to serve time for this.” 

Sherlock flopped dramatically in his chair. “Did you meddle?”

“Sherlock,” John said sharply. And Sherlock wanted to smile, because that was the tone John used when he was reprimanding him. The same way he used to.

“Don’t worry about it,” was all Mycroft said. 

“Right, well, I’m off then,” John said awkwardly. “See you Thursday.” 

Sherlock lifted a hand to wave at him. His heart panged at the sight of John leaving the flat. His footsteps echoed heavily down the stairs. 

“Remember what I said, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft said, softly. Sherlock said nothing. 

*****

John was late for the next intervention. Lestrade paced around the flat, checking his watch every minute or so. Sherlock ignored him, preferring to go to the comfort of his mind palace to wait. It was an overnight shift, dinner through breakfast. Sherlock was certain he wouldn’t be able to eat a single thing.

Finally, finally, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock had the door to 221B closed-no clients, not while he was recovering. “Come in,” Lestrade called.

John awkwardly stepped in, his hands in his pockets. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to leave Rosie with a sitter, and Rosie cried and screamed for twenty minutes.” Sherlock’s stomach lurched. Rosie. John used to bring her around. Used to.

“You could have brought her,” Sherlock said. 

John didn’t make eye contact. “I figured it was best not to.”

“Oh. All right.” Sherlock closed his eyes against the rush of emotions. 

“I’m off,” Lestrade said. “See you, Sherlock. John.” He nodded at both of them and then left. 

“What do you want for dinner?” Sherlock asked, trying to pretend like he wasn’t hurt. And really, _he wasn’t._ “I’ll pay.” 

“You don’t have to do that,” John said, but looked slightly relieved so Sherlock figured it was the right idea to offer. “Chinese? I’ll order.” 

Sherlock cracked a smile at this. Good. This was good. Takeaway was good. “Egg rolls.”

“That’s all you want? Egg rolls?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. John placed their orders and didn’t ask Sherlock to eat anything else. 

“You have to come with me to pick it up.” 

Sherlock hesitated. He hadn’t been out of the flat since he overdosed on the case. It would do him well to get fresh air. On the other hand, he was a long way from recovering and was still very shaky. “Okay,” he agreed, finally. 

“Go get dressed.”

“Right,” Sherlock said. He walked into his bedroom and flicked on the light. He tugged the curtains shut and pulled a suit out from his wardrobe. Once it was on, he smoothed out any wrinkles in the fabric and sat down on the bed. He clasped his hands together, preparing himself. One last glance around his room, and then he was up and heading back to the sitting room. John glanced him over. Sherlock adjusted his collar as John stood up. 

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded and knotted his scarf around his neck, pulling on his coat. John flexed his hand, once, and followed him out into the chilly London night. A light mist was falling. Sherlock rubbed his hands together and tucked them into his pockets. He stopped on the stoop, tilting his head back and breathing in the air. It was nice to be out of his flat. He hadn’t realised how bored he had been in there until that moment. Until he was standing outside, John next to him, out in the city. A small smile crossed his face. 

“What?” Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to look at John.

“It’s nice to be out of the flat, that’s all.”

“Right,” John said. “Coming?” 

Sherlock followed him down the sidewalk. The Chinese place John picked was only a few blocks away. They walked quickly, not really talking. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the small of John’s back. His hands were cold, even in his pockets, and he ached to reach out and cradle John’s hands in between his own. He gripped the material in his pockets, unwilling to betray his feelings that obviously. John wasn’t talking to him, and their once-familiar strolls through the city felt awkward and new. Sherlock was lost. He didn’t know how to talk to John again. Nor did he know how to forgive John for what he did. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to, but it was difficult. John’s actions landed Sherlock in a hospital, for Gods’ sake. A hospital. With a broken rib and a bruised lung. He swallowed, a lump suddenly coming to his throat, and blinked. _John’s here now,_ he reminded himself. _He’s here and that’s what matters._

It was an unavoidable fact that John was only here because Mycroft was paying him.

Sherlock was lost in thought and didn’t notice when they had reached the restaurant. John put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from leaving the vicinity of the restaurant. He released Sherlock when Sherlock stopped moving, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. 

“We’re here.”

“I can see that,” Sherlock said. “Here, take my card. See if they’re ready.” He was halfway through the motions of taking his wallet out when John shook his head. Sherlock belatedly realised what it must have looked like: him, trying to get rid of John so he could go off to some alley and get high again. He _did_ want to get high, and the cravings were nearly unbearable, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not now. Not with John finally back. “Or I can come in with you,” he added, and John relaxed.

“Yeah, I think that’s best. It’s just, well, you know.” John gave a little shrug.

“No need to explain. I understand.” He smiled halfheartedly at John. 

The restaurant was warm and noisy. Fish swam in a tank in the wall. Tropical, multicoloured. Sherlock watched them. A sick feeling came to his stomach, and he thought of the aquarium. The fish tank glowed with a similar blue light. He glanced at John. John’s eyes were fixed on it for a moment, before he tore his gaze away and joined the short line at the counter. 

“The woman in front of us is cheating on her husband,” Sherlock said quietly to John. “With one of the waiters in the restaurant.”

John sighed. “Please do not announce that to the entire restaurant.”

“I wasn’t going to. What would the point of that be?”

“You like to aggravate people,” John said coolly. Sherlock fell into a stony silence. The queue got shorter and shorter. The restaurant was full tonight. Happy customers, couples, families. They probably had no idea they were eating in the same room as a drug addict. Not an addict, Sherlock thought. Except maybe he was. He didn’t remember the cravings being this bad before. His body itched for relief. 

“An order for Watson?” John held up his hand and moved forward to take it. Sherlock pressed his card into John’s hand. His fingertips were cold. So he was only imagining the trails of heat earlier, then. Interesting. 

John took the order and paid, passing Sherlock’s card back to him. _Your hands are cold, I could warm them up._ And then he cursed himself for thinking that. John wouldn’t want that. Of course he wouldn’t. As much as Sherlock wanted to slip his hand into John’s, lace their fingertips together, it wasn’t something that could happen. 

“Coming?” John glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock hurriedly joined him at the exit. The walk back to Baker Street was more comfortable than the walk to the restaurant, but only barely. John appeared to be lost in thought and Sherlock was okay with that. 

John handed Sherlock the food as soon as they stepped in the entryway, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. He exhaled sharply. “Can you take that up to the flat? I want to check in with Mrs. Hudson.” 

“I can,” Sherlock said. John knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door as Sherlock climbed the stairs. Heat emanated from the top of the bag. The food smelled good, and Sherlock realised that he was hungry. He also hadn’t thought much about getting high the whole time they’d been walking home. Now that he was thinking about it, the cravings were strong. But they had been manageable earlier. He kept a smile off his face. 

Sherlock pushed a pile of papers to the floor and moved aside his chemistry flasks. He washed the table, briefly, before getting plates from the cupboard and unwrapping the takeaway. Lo mein for John, egg rolls for him. Three of them. John had ordered a side of potstickers as well. Sherlock wondered if John would let him have any. He hadn’t been hungry before, but he was now. He was debating whether asking John for his potstickers would cause him to be angry with Sherlock-or angrier, anyways-when John stepped into the flat.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” John said. He hung his coat up on the peg and joined Sherlock at the table. “You cleaned.”

“I didn’t want to get poisoned,” Sherlock said. The briefest of smiles crossed John’s face. Something stirred in Sherlock when he saw it. 

John sat down and unwrapped his chopsticks. He broke them apart, the sound echoing through the small kitchen. Sherlock followed suit. As he ate his egg rolls, he eyed John’s potstickers. The smell coming from them nearly made his mouth water. He was feeling okay tonight. He put his hunger down to the past few days of little food. 

John sighed. “You want my potstickers, don’t you.” Damn. 

“Yes.” John slid the container over to Sherlock. 

“We’ll split.”

“Thank you.” The potstickers were as delicious as they smelled. The meat melted in his mouth. The meal was nice, quiet, and Sherlock felt balanced. Mostly. As much as could be expected. It was refreshing. He missed this, being with John. Missed the cases, yes, but the quiet moments too. He missed all of it. Missed John. 

They sat in silence until Sherlock dropped a potsticker in the soy sauce. _“Damn_ it!” The sauce splashed a little onto the table.

John snickered, and then started laughing. Sherlock, surprised, scowled but then started laughing as well. Those few seconds of laughter almost made all of the past while bearable. Until they locked eyes and something shuttered in John’s expression. He lowered his gaze. Sherlock fished the potsticker out of the soy sauce and ate it. The moment was over.

“Thanks for dinner,” John said quietly. “It was...nice.” 

Sherlock nodded slowly. “You’re welcome.” After finishing dinner, they moved into the sitting room and turned on the telly. John sat across from Sherlock at the opposite end of the couch. 

Sherlock was okay.

*****

Sherlock hadn’t planned on sleeping, but to his surprise, he was exhausted. His eyelids drooped. He felt himself beginning to doze, sinking deeper into the couch. The noise from the telly washed over him. “Go to bed,” John said, glancing at him.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “Mmm?”

“Go to bed, Sherlock. You’re falling asleep.” 

Sherlock pushed himself off the couch and stumbled into his bedroom. John lowered the volume until Sherlock could barely hear it. His presence in the other room was comforting. Sherlock changed into pyjamas, climbed into bed, and promptly fell asleep. 

_Sherlock was sitting with John on the top of Bart’s. Rain lashed against them. John was curled in Sherlock’s arms for warmth. He was trembling. Sherlock pressed his chin against John’s hair._

_“I’m cold,” John murmured._

_“I know,” Sherlock said, and held him a little more tightly. They sat there for hours, the sky darkening. Sherlock’s hands froze. His face felt numb. He was freezing. Lights flickered on in the city down below them. London was spread out, sprawling and cheerful in the black rain._

_When Sherlock was so cold that he didn’t think he could move, John stepped back slightly. He tilted his head up and looked at Sherlock. His eyes glanced at Sherlock’s lips, then back up. Hesitantly, Sherlock leaned down. Their lips brushed. John kissed him back._

_And then pulled back and hit Sherlock in the face. His nose shattered. Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. John hit him again. And then kicked him. It was violent, vivid. Sherlock fell to the ground, drawing his legs up to protect himself. Somehow, John’s foot found his way to his ribs. He was wearing his army boots. Every kick felt like a mace. Sherlock’s head snapped back and hit the pavement. He saw stars._

_Sherlock was dying. He was sure of it. Blood streamed down his face. His ribs burned, cracked. Broken. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything except watch John. His face contorted with fury._

_A gunshot rang out through the night, then a second, then a third. John fell slowly backwards in shock. His mouth opened. Three neat holes, straight through his chest. Sherlock crawled over to where John had fallen. Slowly, slowly, his body erupting in fire._

_John grasped at Sherlock’s collar. “Good-bye, Sherlock.”_

_“John-no-don’t-”_

_Rain fell into John’s open, unblinking eyes._

Sherlock sat up with a cry. He was breathing heavily. His sheets were tangled around his legs, his hands twisted in them. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. 

The door to his room opened. Light from the hallway streamed in. John stood in the doorway. “You all right? I heard something.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock said. 

John stepped in and switched on the light at Sherlock’s bedside. “You’re crying.”

“I am?” He touched his face. His hand came away damp. John hovered above him. _Come lie down,_ Sherlock thought desperately. _Please. Come lie down next to me. I need you._

“You are,” John said softly. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated. “You can go now.” He hoped John wouldn’t. He hoped John would read right through him, hoped John would say that he wasn’t going anywhere. But John switched the light back off and left the room, closing the door quietly without so much as a protest.

Sherlock curled himself into the blankets and sobbed, even as the remnants of the dream filtered away. 

*****

The next few shifts were okay. Sherlock and John talked a little more each time. Sometimes John would ask him about cases. Sometimes Sherlock would play violin for him. Rosie never came with John.

A few weeks later, John arrived almost two hours late to his shift. Mrs. Hudson grew increasingly more worried, Sherlock increasingly more impatient. There was only so much time he could spend listening to Mrs. Hudson gossip about Mrs. Turner and her tenants. Especially when she’d compare them to him and John. 

John entered the flat flustered, eyes blown wide in panic. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I couldn’t find a sitter for Rosie, but I didn’t want to bring her, and by the time I found someone I was over an hour late.”

“It’s quite all right,” Sherlock said coolly, even though it hurt that John didn’t want to bring Rosie.

“Next time, just bring her here,” Mrs. Hudson told him. “I’ll look after her.” 

“It’s a night shift, Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Never, dear.” Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder and then left the flat, “to go confirm Christmas plans with her sister.” Christmas was soon, only in about three weeks. Sherlock didn’t have plans. He wasn’t going to have plans. He’d spend it with whoever was assigned to him. No presents, no nothing. 

Sherlock’s rehabilitation was going well. He still had cravings so bad that he couldn’t function, but they were becoming more and more manageable and spaced farther apart. Mycroft didn’t trust him not to go running off to find drugs, and so the shifts continued. If he was being honest, Sherlock didn’t trust himself either. 

Sherlock glanced at the clock. Nearly eight. John should’ve been there by six. They had planned on getting dinner together, maybe going to Angelo’s or something. But John looked exhausted and worn down and not at all like he wanted to go out to dinner. 

“I can make something,” Sherlock offered. “I’m sure I have some canned soup or something around here. Is tomato okay?”

John smiled wanly at him. “Sounds good to me. Thank you.”

Sherlock heated up the soup along with some toast for them. He carried the plates over to John. John’s chair hadn’t been brought down yet. Sherlock wasn’t ready to do that, not unless John would move back in. Which he wouldn’t. So Sherlock hadn’t brought it down. John usually sat on the couch or at the table near the window. He was there now, poking at his laptop.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking the clinic’s schedule for tomorrow,” John told him through a mouthful of soup and bread. 

Sherlock settled in his chair. Their silences weren’t as comforting as they used to be. Sherlock still had a strong desire to talk, or to do something. He was fully aware that neither of them had apologised yet. Sherlock, for everything. John, for hitting him. 

As the evening stretched on, John became more and more exhausted. He stopped poking at his computer. He switched the telly on, but barely paid attention. Sherlock watched him. John kept yawning and rubbing at his eyes. Sherlock moved from his chair to sit next to John on the couch.

“Hello,” John said blearily. “What do you want to watch?”

“I really don’t care,” Sherlock said. “Your pick.”

John switched the channel over to a BBC documentary about space. He looked at Sherlock and laughed. And then laughed some more.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said halfheartedly. The documentary was talking about black holes, a subject Sherlock found mildly interesting. 

_“One of the issues with black holes is that they pull everything towards them,”_ the narrator was saying. _“They suck you in until you’re nothing, crushed in the incredible amounts of pressure.”_ Sherlock pretended not to see John looking at him during this line. _“They’re strong enough to pull even large planets in.”_

“Well, good,” Sherlock grumbled. “There are too many damn planets anyways.”

John laughed again. “Just because you didn’t know that Earth orbited the sun doesn’t mean that there are too many planets.”

“We’re on a planet now,” Sherlock pointed out. “And we’re living. The planet’s orbit seems to be doing fine, and aside from global warming the planet is okay. Why do we need more planets?”

John started to respond but cut himself off with another yawn. “Sorry,” he said afterwards. 

“You should go to sleep, John,” Sherlock said gently.

John shifted against the cushions. “I can’t.” 

“Why not? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Because I can’t, Sherlock. Let me make myself something with caffeine and I’ll be fine until the morning.” 

“You have work in the morning.” John needed to sleep. That much was evident. He had been sleeping terribly ever since Mary’s death, and he had a nightmare that kept him up the night before. His clothes were rumpled and untidy, nothing like his usual. Sherlock worried. “Besides, you’re not getting enough sleep.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said slowly. “I’m not going to sleep. I can’t.” 

“I’ll be quiet. I won’t even play the violin. You can have my room if you’d like.” Sherlock pleaded with him. John was too tired. He cursed himself for missing it earlier and not telling John he’d call someone else. John was very close to getting fired from the clinic-not that he knew that-and falling asleep during work hours might be enough to cost him his job. And that wouldn’t be okay. 

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” John said, sounding angry now. “I’m not going to bloody sleep.” 

“Is this because you’re supposed to be watching me? You can trust me.” _I promise, John. I know what I’ve done to you. I know what I’ve said. But you can trust that I wouldn’t do anything-anything-that might stop us from becoming friends again. I care about you too much. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise this._ Sherlock tried to convey this all to John, but John’s anger struck suddenly and quickly.

“I can’t trust you, Sherlock. That’s why I’m here. Because I can’t trust you.” John took a deep breath and growled out the next words. “I can’t fucking trust you, and so I can’t sleep, because when I wake up you could be God knows where. Strung out in some drug den, probably.” 

Anger and hurt flared in Sherlock, bright and white-hot, and before he knew it he was snapping back at John. “I don’t need you.” Sherlock’s voice was low, brimming with anger. “I don’t need any of you. I was fine alone. I preferred being alone.” He _didn’t_ want to be alone, and he knew that John knew that. Sherlock also knew his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit that. 

John’s face closed off. He walled himself off, protected himself from Sherlock. His jaw twitched. “Fine,” he said flatly. “That’s fine.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed, even as something inside of him broke. It wasn’t fine. It was far from fine. Sherlock couldn’t do this. He couldn’t pretend that everything was fine. He couldn’t pretend like John had torn him apart. He didn’t know how to do this. It was so far out of his depth. Laughably out of his depth. He went into his room, shutting the door behind him. He blocked out the world and tried to focus on something else, anything else, anything but the emptiness growing in his chest. Sherlock stayed in his room until he was sure John’s shift was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_Temptation_ \- New Order](https://www.youtube.com/watch/xxDv_RTdLQo) This song means a lot to me. It always has. 
> 
> Word count: 4,586
> 
> I quickly googled it and found that black holes can indeed pull planets in. Next update in probably about two weeks, give or take a few days. I should be back on schedule now, but no promises. Once again, I'm not a doctor. I did my best.


	9. Chapter 9

__

_Every step that you take_

_Could be your biggest mistake_

_It could bend or it could break_

_But that’s the risk that you take_

_What if you should decide_

_That you don’t want me there in your life?_

_That you don’t want me there by your side?_

Sherlock left his room when he heard John leave, but when he saw Mycroft in the sitting room, he groaned and retreated back to his bed. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Mycroft. But Mycroft knocked on the door to Sherlock’s room and then entered before waiting for a response. Sherlock glared at him.

“What did you do?” 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, a remnant of his crying from earlier.

“Doctor Watson called me.” Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “He asked me to stop paying him. He asked to stop seeing you.”

“What?”

“You heard me fine,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I know you did. So, let me ask again: What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Sherlock turned his back to Mycroft and pulled the covers up to his chin.

“You’re not high, are you?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “Leave me alone, Mycroft.”

“Tell me why John doesn’t want to stay with you anymore.” 

“What does it matter? The second I’m left alone, I’ll end up _strung out in a drug den._ So why would you even bother?” 

“Did he say that to you?” Mycroft’s voice was surprisingly soft. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock repeated. “Really, Mycroft. I don’t care.” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” 

*****

Sherlock was sitting with Mrs. Hudson, a discarded card game on the floor. They’d tried to play Hearts, but gave up when Sherlock pointed out that it really wasn’t meant for two people. Sherlock was holding his violin loosely in one hand, staring out the window. His phone buzzed.

Mycroft.

“What do you want?”

“Sherlock, as you know, I will be going to Mummy and Daddy’s for Christmas.”

“If you are trying to get me to join, I already told you: I’m not going.” 

“No. I think we agree that that would not be ideal. However,” Mycroft took a breath, “Molly’s going to be spending the holiday with her boyfriend. Mrs. Hudson is going to her sister’s. And Lestrade is going to be with his parent’s.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to go to see Mummy and Daddy, Mycroft.”

“I know you don’t.” Mycroft sighed over the phone. “What I’m trying to tell you is that John and Rosie will be spending Christmas with you.”

Sherlock’s ears filled with white noise. He stared at the phone in his hand. John and Rosie would spend Christmas with him? “Excuse me?” Sherlock asked when he could speak again.

“John and Rosie will be spending Christmas at Baker Street.”

*****

John would stay for a little less than a week. Five days, to be precise. He’d arrive on the twenty-third and leave on the twenty-seventh. 

Sherlock was in the process of cleaning the flat. Lestrade was watching amusedly as Sherlock muttered to himself and threw things. His lab equipment was shoved unceremoniously under his bed. His papers piled in neat stacks in drawers and cupboards. He even polished his skull. 

“It’ll be okay, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. 

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade. “Don’t say that.” 

“It will. He’s John, and you’re you.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Sherlock turned to the stairs and took a deep breath. He had to get John his chair, and he had to prepare John’s room. 

“You two always manage to work it out.”

Sherlock whirled around back to Lestrade. “Really? We ‘always manage to work it out?’” He spit the words viciously, adding air quotes. 

“Well, yeah, I thought so. Besides, maybe you should be a bit more lenient with him.” Lestrade said it kindly, but white-hot anger flared through Sherlock. Maybe it was because he allowed himself to be angry at John for leaving. Maybe it was because he was tired of loving him. Maybe it was because he didn’t want John to feel forced to be with him. “Maybe forgive him? He just lost his wife.”

Sherlock lashed out. “How can I _forgive_ him? Forgive him for blaming me for the death of his wife? Whom he left me for? Forgive him for hitting me? Forgive him for breaking my ribs? Forgive him for putting me in a hospital? I messed up. Badly. But so did he.” Sherlock laughed bitterly, his chest tightening.

Lestrade looked shocked. “That’s why you were in the hospital?”

Sherlock nodded. “Wasn’t it obvious?”

“I didn’t think John was capable of that.”

“Obviously, you don’t know what John is capable of.” Sherlock remembered their first case together. John shot the cabbie, without any hesitation. He didn’t think John would shoot him, but now he didn’t know anymore. John didn’t even seem guilty for hitting him. Sherlock’s anger dissipated as quickly as it began, leaving him feeling hollow and empty. “I want him to be able to trust me again, but how can I do that when I don’t trust him?” _We’re broken,_ Sherlock thought, for the hundredth time.

Lestrade’s voice was gentle when he asked, “Do you need help carrying his chair back down here?”

*****

Sherlock triple-checked the flat on the morning of the twenty-third. John’s chair was back in place. Mrs. Hudson had helped him prepare a fresh pot of coffee for John and biscuits for both John and Rosie. He was sitting across the table from Mrs. Hudson, waiting. The flat was as prepared as it could be. He had even gotten rid of any body parts from the refrigerator.

When John knocked on the door, Sherlock stiffened. Mrs. Hudson noticed his hesitation and opened the door for him. “Oh, John,” she said. “Rosie is beautiful.”

Sherlock didn’t see his face, but he could picture his smile. Or at least he hoped John was smiling. “You’ve seen her before, Mrs. Hudson.” He sounded tired, wary of the fact he was back at Baker Street.

“It’s been ages,” she gushed. Sherlock pushed himself slowly out of his chair. He walked over to John. His ribs were mostly healed, his bruises gone. The stitches had fallen out a few weeks ago. But there would be a scar, and sometimes it still hurt to breathe. 

Sherlock and John eyed each other. Rosie was in John’s arms, her wide blue eyes blinking at Sherlock. “Hello, Rosie,” he said, his voice unsteady. Rosie babbled back at him. A ghost of a smile flitted across John’s face, but Sherlock was certain it was about Rosie and not him. John wouldn’t even meet his eyes, staring at the floor. “I cleaned up a bit,” Sherlock said. “For Rosie.”

“You did? Or Mrs. Hudson did?”

“John,” Mrs. Hudson chided. “Sherlock did a lovely job.”

John finally glanced around the flat. “Thank you,” he muttered grudgingly. He still wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. This visit was not getting off to a good start. 

Mrs. Hudson awkwardly left for her flat, claiming that she needed to pack for her trip later that afternoon. Sherlock didn’t blame her. A thick silence fell upon 221B when she left. Sherlock was watching John. John was scanning the flat. Even Rosie was quiet, her face buried in John’s shirt. 

John cleared his throat when the silence became unbearable. “I’m going to go get Rosie’s things settled. Do I need to get a cot for her?” His voice was clipped.

“I prepared one,” Sherlock said softly. “And Mrs. Hudson checked. No poisons or anything.” He tried for a smile. 

“Right,” John said. “I’ll just…” He turned and walked upstairs. Sherlock went into his bedroom and closed the door. When he touched his face, he was surprised to feel that it was damp. A horrible feeling pooled in his gut. John was clearly uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be here. Harry was drinking again, so John couldn’t go to her. Sherlock was the only option for him.

Sherlock sat against the headboard of his bed and tucked the covers up around his knees. He clasped his hands together and rested them against his legs. Lovely. Time slipped away from him as he entered his mind palace. The John wing was still mostly boarded up, all his records stored there. He bypassed that to look for something to calm him down. A pirate ship, perhaps.

Once when Sherlock was very little, Mummy and Daddy took him and Mycroft to Maine. This was during his pirate phase, and he loved all of the lobster boats. He didn’t love eating the lobsters, but he was fascinated by the boats. The Holmes’s had an old family friend there, one who lived on one of the islands, and he allowed Sherlock to go lobstering with him. 

Sherlock entered the memory. Himself, wearing a t-shirt in the cool September air. It was nearing the end of lobster season, and he was lucky enough to be able to go. The wind ruffled his curls as the motor gunned. He was told to stand in the cabin of the boat and watch as the sternman hauled and reset the traps. The bright orange of their grundéns contrasted with the brilliant aqua of the ocean. _This is a triple,_ he was told, _or a single, see? You can tell by the buoys._ He had nodded eagerly, and then curiously reached out and touched one of the lobsters before it was banded. It resulted in him getting pinched. He was returned to Mummy and Daddy in tears with an apologetic sternman in tow. 

Sherlock was torn out of the (rather unpleasant and not relaxing, now that he thought about it) memory by John throwing open his door. “Sherlock!”

“What?” He opened his eyes. John’s face was flushed and red, his eyes wide.

“I thought you had left the flat.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock stared at him, perplexed.

“I don’t know. You’re Sherlock fucking Holmes. Nobody knows why you do what you do.”

“John, I can assure you, I do everything for a reason.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Do you? Really? So there was a reason that you got high and assaulted an officer? Left rehab?”

Sherlock thought for a minute. “Got high? Yes. Left rehab? Also yes.”

“Care to explain?” He frowned at Sherlock.

 _I got high because I’m in love with you and you hate me._ Sherlock, knowing that what he could say would only exacerbate the situation but also knowing that he couldn’t tell John the truth, said, “No.”

“Right.” John laughed harshly. “Yeah, all right.” He shook his head, clenched and unclenched his fist. “I just thought-when I didn’t see you-that you gave in.”

“Gave in?” Surely John wasn’t insinuating what Sherlock thought he was...was he?

“You know. Go back.” John’s face flushed deeper red, part anger and part embarrassment.

“I do not know, evidently.” Sherlock crossed his arms, attempting to wall off John from asking more questions. Or talking. Because Sherlock was certain he did not want to talk about this with John.

“I thought you were back on drugs, Sherlock,” John burst out. “I thought you had left. Again. To go to some back alley or crack house or some equally terrible place.” 

Sherlock’s voice turned cold. He blocked out all the hurt he felt at John’s words, channelling it into anger instead. “I wouldn’t do that. Not with Rosie here. You can’t possibly think I would. You must have some faith in me. I am aware that I’m not perfect, but I also like to think that I’m not cruel. Getting high with you and your child in my flat is cruel. I would not do that.” Sherlock swung himself off the bed and pulled himself up to his full height, a few inches taller than John.

John’s eyes blazed angrily. “Wouldn’t you? I wouldn’t put it past you,” he growled. “You’re an addict. Don’t pretend you’re not.” 

“Recovering addict,” Sherlock snapped back. “I haven’t touched drugs for weeks now. Do I still want to? Yes. Am I going to? Definitely not.” 

“How the fuck am I supposed to believe that?” John stepped into Sherlock’s personal space and looked up at him. His hands were twitching by his sides. Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line and tried not to think about tilting his head down, grabbing John’s chin and kissing him roughly. Sherlock took a step back instead. 

“That’s nothing I can help you with,” Sherlock said coolly. “Now. If you-” Sherlock was interrupted by a wailing sound coming out of John’s pocket. John pulled a baby monitor out, looked at it, and left the room without a word. When he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs up to his bedroom, Sherlock entered the sitting room. He briefly considered picking up his violin to comfort Rosie, but her cries have mostly faded and he didn’t want to disturb her. Or have John come back down and yell at him. 

He stared at John’s empty chair as John paced above him. Sherlock listened to him moving around. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost pretend that it was the old days. Before he left for two years, before Mary. When John still lived with him. Sherlock sighed and tucked himself tighter into his chair. John didn’t come back down.

*****

Sherlock must have fallen asleep, because he woke up to bright sunlight streaming through the window facing the street. He arched his back and stretched. It was sore from sleeping in his chair all night. His spine popped as he stood up, unfurling his arms and legs. He yawned and ran a hand through his chair. He needed to brush his teeth. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would make him some tea, or a pastry for breakfast. 

Then the smell of eggs hit his nose. He sniffed and peered into the kitchen. John was standing at the stove, Rosie balanced on his hip. Sherlock swallowed. His sleep-ridden brain had forgotten that John was staying with him. He took a careful step towards the kitchen, planning to slip in and grab some tea before he and John argued more.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” John said, effectively ruining that plan.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I am.” He set the kettle on to boil and pulled out the tea from the cupboard. John felt crowded against him in the small kitchen. Sherlock’s heart beat too fast at the proximity. Sherlock finished making his tea and went back into the sitting room. If John didn’t want to be with him, fine. It was his flat and he was perfectly within reason to sit in it.

However, when John had finished what he was doing with the eggs, he set Rosie down on the floor with a bag of blocks (where had he gotten that from?) and took a seat across from Sherlock. Sherlock looked at the swirls of milk in his tea. In his haste to leave the kitchen, he hadn’t mixed it fully. “Sherlock?”

John’s eyes met his when he glanced up. “Yes?”

“I. Um. I apologise for yesterday.” 

“What?” Sherlock blinked at him. That was not at all what he had been expecting. He did want an apology, yes, but not necessarily for yesterday. An apology for sending him to the hospital might be nice. Or one for blaming Sherlock for Mary’s death (partially his fault, but he didn’t choose for her to jump in front of him so it wasn’t all on him). But he listened anyway, because it was John.

“Yeah. Yesterday. What I said to you, that wasn’t okay.” John fidgeted with his fork. “It was wrong of me to say that you’d do drugs around Rosie. I know you wouldn’t. I just panicked.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and then, “Thank you.” The silence stretched on, awkward and palpable. 

John glanced around the flat. “You haven’t decorated.” 

“Pointless.” 

John almost smiled. “We’re going to, you know. Today. We’re going to go to the shops and buy decorations.”

Sherlock studied him. “Why?” He couldn’t fathom why John deemed it necessary to go through all of that. The flat looked as normal as ever. Decorating it would only be a long and tedious process, and then they’d have to clean it up after the holidays. It wasn’t worth it.

“Because it’s my daughter’s first Christmas. Now. Get off your arse and get dressed. We’re going to the store to pick out a tree.” Sherlock still didn’t want to, but he was intelligent enough to pick up on John’s proffered olive branch. It wasn’t an apology, it wasn’t what he needed, but just for now it might work.

“We won’t find any,” Sherlock told him. “It’s Christmas Eve. Everywhere will be sold out.”

“We’ll find something,” John said with grim determination. 

Just before they left, as John was putting on his coat, Sherlock watched him. He saw John’s expression, saw that he was trying to mend things in his own messy way. And realised that however much he might want an apology, he wasn’t going to get one. Not anything more than what John said earlier. At least not anytime soon. 

So Sherlock buried it under everything else they weren’t talking about. 

*****

The five stores they tried were, in fact, sold out of trees, but in the sixth one Sherlock was able to find a small tabletop ash tree. John acquiesced, looking at it and shaking his head. “It’s better than nothing. But it’s still the most ridiculous Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.”

“Rosie isn’t old enough to know the difference. And I certainly don’t care,” Sherlock said, picking it up. 

John placed it in their cart. Rosie reached for it and pouted when she couldn’t grasp it. John kissed the top of her head. Sherlock turned away, pretending to look at the other decorations. 

“What else do we want?” John asked, coming to stand next to him.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. 

“Lights, ornaments…” John continued talking as if Sherlock hadn’t said anything. “Food?” 

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I might have some old lights in storage. I suppose I could take those out.” 

John nodded slowly. “The ones we had at that party?”

That party. Yes. The one where John stayed with him over his girlfriend, before the fall, before Mary. Nostalgia threatened to overwhelm him, so Sherlock turned to John and said, “Yes. That party. Do we need ornaments for the tree?”

John told him that they most definitely did. Sherlock groaned, but complied, and by the time they were back at Baker Street, Sherlock was laden down with bags. John was carrying Rosie so he couldn’t help. The handles of the bags bit into Sherlock’s fingers and wrists, and he was glad when they got home. 

John set up the little tree on the table while Sherlock searched for the lights. At last he found them, shoved in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets. He then made tea while John took Rosie to the store to get biscuits.

It only took them a few hours to get everything set up. Their brief lunch break consisted of toast. Sherlock wasn’t complaining. It was nice to be with John again, even if there still was an undercurrent of uncomfortableness. The time passed quickly, and by the time they were done the flat was nearly unrecognisable. The late afternoon sunlight glinted off the ornaments on their small tree. Lights framed the windows and rested atop the mantelpiece. John managed to produce a festive hat to put on the skull (Sherlock wasn’t sure where he got it) and the old reindeer antlers were dug out to place on the head on the wall. 

They didn’t hang up any mistletoe.

“I’m going to Regent’s Park with Rosie. Joining?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock was too busy admiring their work to register that John was speaking to him.

“Park. Coming?”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. John’s gaze was firm, steady. He wanted Sherlock to come. Sherlock wasn’t certain he wanted to. It was still awkward between them, and Sherlock needed time to think things over. 

He could do that at the park, though. And the bonus would be that he would be with John. 

“I suppose,” Sherlock said, and tugged on his coat. John bundled up Rosie and strapped her into the carrier on his chest, following Sherlock down the steps. 

The park was near-empty, families inside celebrating with each other. Sherlock’s breath steamed in the chilly air, reminding him of a cigarette. His fingers twitched. He’d been doing better recently. Of course, he still woke up in cold sweat, body aching for drugs, but that was happening less and less recently. Distractions were good. 

Rosie babbled quietly to John as they set off along the path. John appeared lost in thought, so Sherlock said nothing. The sun was low in the sky-it was December, after all-and shadows spread out underneath the trees. They made their way to the fountain. The water splashed merrily into the basin. Sherlock remembered coming here high, years ago. The water then had seemed like a miraculous force, threatening to reach out and grab him. He was safer now. 

Sherlock sat down on a bench. John sat down on the other end, too far away to touch. Sherlock gripped the fabric inside his pockets. A slight breeze blew through his hair. He inhaled, the familiar scent of the park filling his lungs. Trees, grass, and the sharper scent of winter. He wondered vaguely if it would snow this year. It did on the first Christmas he and John had spent together. He hoped it would. He’d always love the snow. Rosie would like it. Maybe it would give them an excuse to go outside in it, to see what she thought. John’s cheeks might be reddened from the cold, his lips chapped, his eyes sparkling. The image was somewhat muted by everything John had done. Sherlock wanted to forgive him-badly-but he wasn’t sure how. The dull twist in his stomach had become constant at this point.

Sherlock turned to John abruptly, not wanting to spoil the Christmas spirit. “Dinner?”

“I don’t know what’ll be open,” John said.

“There’s a good Indonesian place near Baker Street. I’ve had takeaway from there on Christmas before.” He neglected to mention that it had been Christmas a month before he had met John. He had been seriously considering getting high again, just to do _something,_ but Mycroft had stopped by and brought the takeaway. Antagonising him provided just the right amount of distraction.

“Sounds good to me,” John said.

*****

The takeaway was even better than Sherlock had remembered. He told John (who was using Sherlock’s card) to tip them extra, a lot extra, for working during a holiday. John looked amazed at that, until Sherlock reminded him that he wasn’t a complete arsehole all the time. Then he just looked chastised. 

After takeaway, John sat with Rosie in his chair. Sherlock was across from them, idly reorganising the room of his mind palace dedicated to different kinds of cigarette tar. Coincidentally, it was adjacent to the room with the analysis of tobacco ash. 

“Why don’t you play something?” John looked hopeful. Another olive branch. But still no apology.

“All right,” Sherlock said slowly. He stood up and walked behind his chair, getting the violin case and putting it on the table. He unclasped it. The violin was familiar in his hands. He ran his fingers once over the bow and then tuned it, carefully testing the pitch of each string. “Anything in particular you’d like to hear?”

“I’m good with anything,” John said. “I don’t suppose you have any alcohol?”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Obviously I don’t. I’m a recovering addict, remember? Why would I have alcohol?” Alcohol never tempted him, but Mycroft decided that it was safer for him to be away from any addictive substances.

John winced. “Right. Never mind.” 

Having decided that the violin was tuned to perfection, Sherlock drew the bow over the A string. The note came out sounding crisp and clear. He thought he’d need a moment of recollection after weeks of not playing, but his muscle memory took over. He played _Greensleeves_ and _We Wish You A Merry Christmas_ and _Deck The Halls_ and a few others. John and Rosie watched him silently. Rosie was enraptured by the instrument. John’s face was unreadable. He ended with _Angels We Have Heard On High_ before John needed to put Rosie to bed.

“That was beautiful,” John said.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he called over his shoulder as he made his way up the stairs.

 _You will?_ Sherlock thought, and settled himself in his chair to wait. He heard John’s footsteps, his voice muttering to Rosie while moving around in his bedroom. It was strangely calming. Rosie must have been tucked in, because John started down the stairs. But then he stopped, lingering, and Sherlock listened. A sound like a muffled yell came from the stairs. He raised himself halfway out of his chair. When a crash sounded from the hallway, he pushed himself up fully and ran out of the room. 

“John?”

John was leaning against the wall and panting heavily. One of his hands was up by his face, the other was clenched by his side. His back rose and fell with each breath. Sherlock stared at him. Then he saw it: a dent in the wall, about chest height. Fresh. Just made. 

“What are you doing?”

John turned to glare at him. “I’m decking the fucking walls.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. John...made a pun? 

“You were just playing it,” John growled. His eyes were narrowed, his lips firmly pressed together.

Laughter slipped past Sherlock’s lips and he regretted it instantly. That wasn’t an appropriate reaction to John’s obvious anger. He clapped a hand over his mouth but it was too late. To his great surprise, John’s frown softened and then he was laughing too. Sherlock ceased his laughter before John and felt lucky that he was allowed to watch. John’s back was still heaving, but he was smiling at Sherlock. And then he bent over so Sherlock couldn’t see his face. After a moment his laughter stuttered, a sad, broken sound. A sob escaped his lips and Sherlock knew he wasn’t laughing any more. He reached out tentatively, but changed his mind and withdrew his hand. 

“Come sit,” he said instead. 

John followed him into the sitting room. Sherlock sat down. John sat in his chair and hung his head, pressing his hand into his eyes. Sherlock wanted to hug him. He ached to wrap John’s body in his own. Whisper that things were okay. He wasn’t sure John would like that, though, so he didn’t move. Just watched as John slowly came back to himself.

“Sorry for that,” he said when he could breathe. “For the wall. And falling apart.” 

_Another wrong apology,_ Sherlock thought, but all he said was, “It’s all right.” 

“I…” John sighed. 

“Mary?” Sherlock asked, reading his mind. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t expected this. Of course John would break down over Mary at some point. His first Christmas without his wife. A selfish part of him hoped that John didn’t still love her, but of course he did. She was a martyr now. It was easier for John to miss her than for him to condemn her. 

John nodded. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” Sherlock hoped he didn’t. He wasn’t good with words under normal situations, and this was far from normal. What was he supposed to say to his grieving best friend? The same friend that he was in love with?

“Not now,” John said quietly. He raised his head to look at Sherlock. Sherlock’s heart twisted. John’s eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks blotchy and flushed. He coughed once. 

“Okay.” 

They sat like that for a while longer, Sherlock thinking about John. He thought about how much he loved John, and how mad he was at the same time. It was an annoying sense of juxtaposition. The worst part of it was that John didn’t love him back. He couldn’t talk to John about it because John would leave. And John wouldn’t apologise because...actually, Sherlock didn’t know why. He wanted to talk about what John did. He _needed_ to talk about what John did. Clearly, John was too uncomfortable to do that. So Sherlock let it rest. 

“I’m going to bed,” John said after some time, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts.

“All right,” Sherlock said absently. He watched as John stood up and walked over to the door. When he reached it, he turned around and faced Sherlock.

“Thank you for letting me stay.” His voice was unusually soft. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I believe you’re supposed to be watching me.” 

John opened his mouth as if to say something. Instead he said nothing. John nodded and disappeared upstairs without another word, leaving Sherlock alone in his chair. 

*****

Sherlock didn’t sleep much that night. He tried for a few hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, but gave up at around three. A strip of light from the street outside filtered in around his curtains. Sherlock lay still, listening to the sounds of London. He heard a shout, once, twice. A taxi rumbled its way underneath his window. Eventually he gave up completely and slipped out of bed. He opened the curtain and then the window, looking down into the alley. The cold air hit his face and he shivered, relishing in the cold. It was refreshing. It reminded him of when he was younger, looking out at the snow around his house. There wasn’t any snow here. He breathed in deeply. The ashtray on his windowsill had an old cigarette in it. It was too burnt to smoke. John wouldn’t approve if he found it there. So Sherlock tipped the ashes out the window. They floated down into the alley. He set the tray back onto his window. He felt peaceful. It was very early Christmas morning and John was sleeping somewhere above him with his infant daughter. 

Sherlock pushed himself away from the window and stretched. His ribs were still sore, but they were mostly healed. He had full mobility, even if he had to be cautious sometimes and avoid heavy lifting. Not that he was doing anything that would cause lifting, having not taken any cases since the intervention. Moving John’s chair was the obvious exception, and Lestrade had borne most of the weight. He wondered briefly how Lestrade was doing. And then he wondered about Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, and his parents. 

He pulled out his phone to text them all Merry Christmas, but stopped when he saw the time. Three forty-seven. Too early for anyone else to be up. 

Abandoning that plan, Sherlock reached under his bed. He hadn’t bought a gift for John. He wasn’t certain if that would be overstepping, and in any sense, he certainly didn’t know what John wanted. But he had picked up something for Rosie while John was looking for ornaments. He’d slipped it in the cart when John wasn’t looking. He pulled it out now and looked at it. 

It was a blanket, pale yellow and fuzzy. He knew it was perfect the second he saw it in the store. It was soft, and thick enough that John could wrap Rosie in it and put her in a pushchair and take her to the park. It had dogs all over it. Sherlock traced one of them with his finger. A red setter, he thought. Very similar to Redbeard. 

Sherlock shook his head to clear the thoughts, hating how Christmas made him astonishingly sentimental. Or perhaps that was just John’s daughter. Or both. Sherlock didn’t think he owned any wrapping paper, and if he did, he had no idea where it was. He settled for pulling old newspapers from a pile in his room. He carefully folded the blanket into a perfect rectangle before setting it on his bed. None of the newspapers were big enough to cover it completely, so he’d have to get creative. He placed four of them on the bed, making a square. He set the blanket in the middle of them. Perfect. If he was careful, he could tape it all up. Sherlock folded each corner in, taping them to the others as he did so. When he was certain that side was secure, he flipped it over and taped the other side. 

It turned out better than he’d expected. Now for the label. He rummaged around in one of his drawers for a marker. Finding one, he wrote _To Rosie. Merry Christmas. From Sherlock_ on the package.

He then wandered out into the sitting room to place the present under their terrible tree. He flicked on the coloured lights above the fireplace. Sherlock shivered again. Going back into his room, he took one of his dressing gowns from his closet-the blue one-and tugged it on before lying back down in bed on top of the covers. 

Sherlock’s fingers traced over the seams of his blanket as he waited for morning. He lost himself in his mind palace, not moving until the first rays of light streamed in through his open window. 

Sherlock raised himself out of bed when he thought it was late enough. Twitching restlessly, he put on the kettle to make tea. John would be up shortly. His habit of rising early was something he hadn’t quite managed to get rid of from his time in Afghanistan. He poured a splash of milk into his cup. 

Rosie’s present stood out under the tree, all by itself. He felt a flicker of shame that he hadn’t gotten anything for John, but he knew that John hadn’t gotten anything for him either. He waited anxiously for John, sipping at his tea.

Shortly after he heard Rosie’s wake up cries and John’s footsteps, heavy with sleep. He turned on the rest of the lights. It was still early and they glowed in the shadows. 

John appeared at the doorway, sleep-mussed, wearing only a white t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Sherlock envisioned himself running his fingers through John’s hair, smoothing it and then messing it up again. He gave Sherlock a small smile when he saw him. Rosie was in his arms, squirming. 

“Can you hold her?” John asked him. Sherlock froze. He hadn’t been allowed to hold Rosie since, well, since Mary was alive. John was still speaking. Sherlock wrenched himself back into the present. “-breath smells horrible,” John finished, looking at him expectantly. 

Sherlock shakily stood up and held out his arms for Rosie. John handed her to him. Their hands brushed. John’s skin was warm and soft, fresh from sleep. If Sherlock moved a little closer, maybe he could wrap his arms around John and hold him-

But John was thanking him and turning to go to the loo. Sherlock looked down at Rosie in his arms. She looked up at him. “Hello,” he said.

She gripped his dressing gown and gazed up at him with wide eyes. She wasn’t crying. That was something, Sherlock supposed. It wouldn’t be good if John came back to his daughter crying in Sherlock’s arms. “I got you a present,” Sherlock continued. “To be honest, I don’t know what to get for babies. And now I’m talking to you. Great. You can’t even respond.” The tone of his voice was fond. Rosie beamed up at him. Sherlock decided right then that he liked Rosie. He hoped that John would bring her over more often. 

Rosie nuzzled her face into Sherlock’s shoulder and squirmed. He held her just a little tighter and began pacing around the flat. He figured he was utterly useless when it came to children. He didn’t remember much of his own childhood and he didn’t have a sibling nor a younger relative to take care of. Luckily, Rosie seemed content to sit in his arms while he paced.

They ended up near the window. Below them, the street was deserted. Rosie pressed a hand to the windowpane and then recoiled. “It’s cold,” Sherlock told her. She reached out again, so maybe it wasn’t too bad. Sherlock watched her as she watched the street while they waited for John.

Sherlock turned around when he heard him coming over. “I can take her back,” John said. Sherlock reluctantly handed her over. “I think she likes you, though. Did she cry?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, that’s good-” John stopped talking as soon as his eyes landed on the small package under the tree. “Did you get her something?”

“I did,” Sherlock said.

“When?”

“When you were looking at the ornaments.” 

“Well, let’s have breakfast and then she can open it. I got her something as well,” John told him, shaking his head. “Of course you’d get her something.” 

Sherlock followed John into the kitchen. He went to turn on the stove, but John stopped him. “I bought this.” He held up a prepackaged pastry. 

“Looks good,” Sherlock said. “The table’s sterile, so are the plates and silverware. I did it before you came. Mrs. Hudson insisted on double-checking too, in case you were worried.”

“Great,” John said. “Let me just pop this in the oven and then we can eat. Want some eggs?”

“I’ll make them,” Sherlock said, needing to do something. “Scrambled okay?” John nodded his assent and Sherlock pulled out a pan. Soon, the smell of cooking eggs mingled with the smell from the oven. “What will Rosie be eating?”

“I brought her food from our flat,” John said. “I put it in the fridge. Hope that was okay.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock finished cooking the eggs, sprinkling in some pre-grated cheese to add flavour. John poured them each a glass of orange juice, which he’d apparently also brought. Or maybe he bought it when he bought biscuits yesterday. 

They sat down at the table to eat. Sherlock scooped a helping of eggs onto his plate. His slice of crumb cake was larger than John’s, but John had more eggs. Sherlock ate his eggs first, saving the cake for last. It was delicious. “Where’d you get this?”

“I used to have it when I was younger,” John said, flushing slightly. “Harry and I would look forward to it every year.”

“How is Harry?” Sherlock asked.

John looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of egg around with his fork. “She’s fine. Back in rehab. I hope it’ll help this time.” Sherlock nodded. Rehabilitation wasn’t much fun. He hoped Harry would get it together, for John. And for herself. “Anyways,” John said with forced cheerfulness, “I’ll call her sometime soon. Let’s focus on Rosie’s presents right now.” 

Sherlock placed his dishes in the sink, John following shortly afterwards. Rosie was settled firmly on the couch, John next to her. “Can you get me her gift? It’s on my bed.”

Sherlock recognised that John wanted a moment with his daughter, probably to think about Mary. He went upstairs. John’s bedroom was clean. His suitcase was sitting in the corner. He hadn’t bothered to unpack, then. Sherlock tamped down his emotions when he saw that. Rosie’s cot was standing against the far wall, just underneath the window. John’s bed was made neatly, the edges tucked in. Sherlock spotted the present on the bed and picked it up. It was actually wrapped, red and green checkered paper. There was a silver bow stuck to the corner of it. Sherlock hesitated, stuck in the fragile balance between wanting to give John some privacy but not wanting John to think that he was snooping. Maybe he had snooped in the past, but he wouldn’t do that now. He didn’t want to risk the frailty of their relationship. 

Sherlock made his way back down the stairs, holding the gift. John’s eyes were red when he came down, but Sherlock didn’t mention it. John smiled gratefully at him. Sherlock got his present from under the tree and then handed both to John. Just as he was settling in and John was giving Rosie her gifts, his phone buzzed from its spot on the table.

Mycroft. He sighed and stood up, walking away down the hall as he answered. “What do you want?”

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” Mycroft said coolly. “How is everything?”

“Fine. Why did you call?”

“To wish you a Happy Christmas. You’re not busy, are you?”

Sherlock lowered his voice. “Rosie’s opening her gifts and John misses Mary. So yes, a bit busy.”

He could hear Mycroft raising his eyebrows. “Gifts?”

“Yes, of course gifts.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly. “I’ll tell Mummy to call you later, then.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Be careful, Sherlock.”

“Careful? Careful of what?” Careful about not getting his heart broken by John? 

“Merry Christmas.” There was a click on the other end of the line. Sherlock frowned down at his phone.

“Everything all right?” John asked when Sherlock returned to the sitting room and sat back down on the couch. 

“Yes, fine. It was just Mycroft.” 

“You could talk to him more,” John said. “I can wait. So can Rosie.”

“When have I ever wanted to talk to Mycroft?”

John laughed. “Fair enough.” 

Rosie plucked at the paper on Sherlock’s gift. John gently guided her fingers to the tape, saying nothing about the newspaper. She scrunched up the paper, ripping it slightly so that the yellow of the blanket showed through. John helped her unwrap it all the way. Sherlock watched anxiously. He was worried that it wasn’t good enough. Maybe Rosie already had enough blankets? It didn’t help that Sherlock couldn’t parse the expression on John’s face, either. He kept it stubbornly blank as the blanket was revealed. 

John stared at it for a long moment before clearing his throat. “Thank you, Sherlock. It’s perfect.”

Sherlock went limp with relief.

*****

Later that night, after Rosie had been put to bed (wrapped up in her dog blanket) and the remnants of Christmas Dinner were cleaned up, John suggested that they put some carols on. Sherlock, not in the mood to play the violin, agreed. 

He opened up his laptop and shuffled an album he hadn’t heard in years. They sat quietly through the first few songs. The day had been good, Sherlock thought. Better than he had expected. After presents, they had gone for another walk around Regent’s Park. When they got back, John put the telly on for Rosie while Sherlock talked to his parents. Dinner was a small turkey. It had been near impossible to find, John had explained, but he did it anyways. Potatoes and carrots were served with it. Sherlock had seconds. John wasn’t a terrible cook, after all, and he was relieved to have something other than takeaway for once. Rosie got her carrots and potatoes mashed up, along with some disgusting-looking baby food. The three of them had laughed and hung out together until Rosie’s bedtime. The day was designed to make John happy and not hung up on Mary. He grieved enough. He deserved one day where he wasn’t constantly sad. And maybe it would help Sherlock, too. Seeing as it was unlikely that he and John would ever be able to truly work things out again.

Sherlock was jolted back into reality by the chorus of one of the songs on the album. It used to be his favourite one, back in University days, when all he wanted was for the holidays to be over. 

_There’ll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias  
Mixed up with that drink made from girders  
‘Cause it’s all we’ve got left as they draw their last breath  
Ah, it’s nice for the kids as you finally get rid of them  
In the Saint Stephen’s Day Murders_

“What’s this?” John asked him.

“This? It’s called _St. Stephen’s Day Murders.”_

“It doesn’t sound like a Christmas carol.”

“It kind of is,” Sherlock said. “It’s a song about the day after. When most of the Christmas spirit is gone.” The irony was not lost on Sherlock, seeing as John would leave shortly after Christmas.

“That’s not really Christmas-y,” John said. “Can I turn it off?”

“It has ‘murder’ in the title,” Sherlock pointed out.

John laughed. “Of course, you’d like that. But can I skip it?”

Sherlock was secretly pleased, now that he thought about it, that John turned it off. He didn’t particularly want John to leave. He didn’t protest again when John reached over and skipped it. After Christmas, then what? The holiday spirit put John in a good mood. Sherlock knew that. But afterwards? John might decide that he hated Sherlock again. It was a likely outcome. Tears suddenly came to Sherlock’s eyes, and he blinked furiously. His heart grew heavy, realising that John only had one more full day left with him. In less than forty-eight hours he’d leave. Sherlock didn’t even know if he’d see John again. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” He raised his head up.

“Thank you for giving Rosie a gift. I really appreciate it. And...thanks for the distraction today, too. From Mary.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said softly. John didn’t say those things lightly, which meant that he genuinely meant it. Sherlock smiled sadly at him. 

John locked his eyes firmly with Sherlock’s. His gaze was intense. Sherlock almost broke it, but found that he couldn’t look away. John’s voice was steady when he asked, “Maybe Rosie and I can come for New Year’s, too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [_What If_ \- Coldplay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH-GPdkkNik&list=TLPQMDUwMzIwMjFQcGZW7EJoVw&index=2)
> 
> Word count: 7,592
> 
> [_St. Stephen's Day Murders_ \- The Chieftains (the song Sherlock likes)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=24dFKxSn-mI)
> 
> All right. Obviously this is up two weeks late and I'm sorry for that. My laptop broke, and then I was going through some things. Maybe the extra-long length makes up for it? I hoped to have this up around Christmas, as it's a Christmas chapter, but that didn't work. It was also originally going to be part of Chapter Eight but since that would've been long I had to cut it. Even this is a little longer than I would've liked, but there wasn't a good place to cut it so here we are. As always, hopefully the next update will be within two weeks, but life happens so I guess I'll just have to see.


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